


heard pain tell love, she said 'where would i be without you?'

by troiing



Series: pain told love [1]
Category: The Worst Witch (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Chronic Pain, F/F, Gen, Hair Washing, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Post-Season/Series 02, Recovery, Sharing Magic, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, petition to bring s1 Ada back 2k18
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-05-19
Packaged: 2019-04-21 10:49:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 36,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14283294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troiing/pseuds/troiing
Summary: When the ice melts, when the magic comes pouring back into the walls, breathing tremulous life into the castle, reversing the effects of the magical death of the grounds and its occupants, it meets the emptiness inside of her and she collapses.(Magic is an organic thing; it lives and breathes and grows at its own rate. It cannot be forced along, can only be nurtured or confined and repressed, and although it grows, although it regenerates, it cannot be manifested suddenly out of the aether. It’s fundamental magical theory, really.And it's for that reason Hecate lies, slack-jawed and frightfully pale, in the infirmary for five days before regaining even a whisper of consciousness.)Or, the magic at Cackle's takes some time to recover, and Hecate has some personal demons to battle in the meantime. Follows Hecate across the ~6 months after the events of The Big Freeze as she navigates her recovery of both her magic and her way of life - with a great deal of help from her support structure.





	1. losing blood; i'm gonna leave my bones

**Author's Note:**

> There's a lot to say to preface this fic, so bear with me, guys.  
> First of all, the usual shoutouts, of course. Matilda and Nova were both kind enough to put a critical eye to this novella for me... but I reckon they owed me because they are equally at fault for its inception - Nova for shouting "what if the magic didn't come back like that? what if Pippa shared her magic with Hecate after?" and Matilda for inspiring talk of mobility problems!Hecate which led me to chronic pain!Hecate and eventually fibro!Hecate.
> 
> Fibromyalgia is one of those big bad mysteries of the medical world; there are a lot of people (mostly women) who suffer with it and not a lot of hard answers for why. If you're interested in learning more about it, there are countless resources on the internet, from professional medical articles to forums to wellness websites curated by and for fibro folk to fanfic written about fibro folk, by fibro folk, here on ao3. I've spent a lot of hours over the past two months neck-deep in these sites myself, because while I have pretty close relationships with a couple of fibro patients, I have no personal, first-hand experience with it.
> 
> So that's my disclaimer. As a chronic pain sufferer myself, I have absolute respect for anyone with Fibromyalgia, and I can only hope to have done it justice with this fic. However, experience with chronic pain is not experience with Fibro, and I couldn't find anyone among my followers who had more intimate experience with it. That said, if you do, and if something doesn't ring true, please don't hesitate to contact me. I'll change it. Hell, I'll take the whole thing down if I need to.
> 
> The fic is written, but because it's become such a monster and I've never written anything this long in one go, I've split it into chapters and am editing it one at a time, so chapters will be posted a few days apart. That said, if anyone with more intimate experience with Fibro would like to be added as a beta for the remainder of the fic before it's posted, please let me know! I really would appreciate it more than I can say.
> 
>  **Content warning (for the entirety of the fic):** ableism (ableist thoughts from the disabled party, and references to a history of ableism in the workplace). non-sexual intimacy including nudity (bathing, hair-washing). self-sabotage but it gets fixed bc Hecate has a support structure, however limited. non-explicit sexual content.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hecate wakes in the infirmary on November 5th. Ada, Mildred, and Pippa pay her visits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for ableist thinking on Hecate's part in this chapter.

The magic and students return to the castle in a flurry of excitement and activity; with everything that’s happened, it’s some time before things settle down again. Only the most sensitive of the students feel the after-effects of the magical sapping. They are young, with fledgling magic; the older and Craftier among them may feel the sluggish nature of their spells, but they aren’t given much chance to take notice, just assigned a somewhat lighter workload in their practical lessons for the week that follows Halloween.

The girls who stayed behind, who lost their magic entirely, are given a complete reprieve, confined to the infirmary and kept under a particularly careful eye by the nurse the first day, and kitchen staff for the two after that. Miss Tapioca—broadly viewed by the students (and some of the staff) as generally horrible in ways far different than Miss Hardbroom’s sometimes terrifyingly brusque and demanding mannerisms—pours her own magic into the meals, gives more of herself than she ever has to help the girls and staff recover with ingredients meant to nourish their magical energies. 

She runs herself ragged between her usual threats and dramatics, and it does not go unnoticed.

When Ada is able, she makes it a point to thank her. The gratitude is dismissed in a flurry of snark and activity, of course, but she finds herself feeling rather pleased to have the often-unpleasant and arguably less-than-mediocre cook around.

But it is two days before she is able. For when the ice melts, when the magic comes pouring back into the walls, breathing tremulous life into the castle, reversing the effects of the magical death of the grounds and its occupants, it meets the emptiness inside of her and she collapses.

Enid, Maud and Felicity find her slumped against the steps of the potions lab, only the barest flutter of a pulse in her veins.

* * *

Ada has always pointed to her Deputy as a more powerful witch, a better witch, the best that witchery has to offer. If Cackle’s were a kingdom, Hecate would be the power behind the throne—thirteen years younger than Ada, but with the raw ability of a witch twice her age.

There’s a reason the Hardbroom line was held in such high esteem for so very long.

And for that same reason Hecate lies, slack-jawed and frightfully pale, in the infirmary for five days before regaining even a whisper of consciousness.

* * *

There are cards. Countless cards. Some stood open on the side table, glimpses of colour and careful penmanship inside, others tucked into envelopes. And there are sweets, piles of them, the smell of chocolates permeating their wrappers. Hecate awakens with a wrinkled nose and a broken groan, head pounding and senses overstimulated.

“Hecate?”

Hecate screws her eyes shut, fingers twitching at the distant feeling of a hand against hers. She thinks the touch might be painful, but it’s hard to tell; her entire body is screaming, protesting against nothing and everything. She already wants to cry.

“Hecate, dear, can you hear me?”

 _Ada_.

She does not realise that she hasn’t spoken the other witch’s name aloud until Ada’s voice asks, more insistently, “Hecate? Hecate, are you alright?”

Hecate closes her fingers weakly around the hand grasping hers, works a little harder to summon her voice. Manages to croak out “ _no_ ” as she carefully unscrews her eyes, blinks them open again in the hard light of the infirmary.

Ada exhales sharply. “At least you’re honest,” she says.

Hecate thinks she is trying to inject a little humour into the situation, but there is nothing, _nothing_ humorous about the way she feels. “Ada…”

“I have your potions, Hecate,” Ada says, back to a businesslike tone that is somewhat comforting. “Which one do you need first?”

Hecate manages to turn her head a little, sees two vials at the bedside. Nearly sobs with relief. “Blue,” she chokes after a moment. “Blue is maintenance.”

“How much?”

“A bit. It doesn’t have to be precise.”

“Alright.” Ada uncorks the vial, touches Hecate’s cheek gingerly. “Here; open.”

Hecate parts her lips obediently as Ada pours a bit of the potion into her mouth; she holds it there for a moment before swallowing, manages not to choke on it.

She thinks she’s going to be ill.

“The other?” Ada asks softly.

Hecate shakes her head slightly in response, and regrets the movement immediately. “Wait. Just… wait.”

“Alright,” Ada repeats gently, laying a hand over Hecate’s again. “Alright.”

Hecate wills the potion to take effect, to provide some relief, forcing herself to take deep, slow breaths. And there it is again—that smell. “Ada. The… the chocolates,” she mumbles, keenly aware of the way her speech slurs. Of the fog of pain in her mind. Of the emptiness inside of her. “They have to go.”

“Ah.” Hecate watches a little blearily as Ada releases her hand, circling the bed to gather up the offending sweets. She takes them, places them on the empty bed across the room, and returns to Hecate’s side with a slight smile. “Better?”

At first, Hecate cannot summon up an answer. She peers at Ada instead, eyes flickering down past her own feet, to the other bed. It isn’t like Ada to use magic superfluously, but… 

“Your magic,” she says at last, voice still rough with disuse. “Did it—were you…?”

Ada smiles wanly back, ducks her head as she lays a hand atop Hecate’s, thumb smoothing across her knuckles. “Gone.” Though nearly a whisper, the word plunges like a knife into the space between Hecate’s ribs. “For a while,” Ada continues, squeezing Hecate’s hand gently. “I can feel it returning even now, though.”

But Hecate barely hears her after the first syllable. She lets her eyes fall shut, feels the frown tugging at her mouth, creasing her brow. She barely has enough energy to _feel_ , but has even less of it available for holding things back. “I’m sorry,” she mumbles, stubbornly heaving out a breath in an attempt to keep from sobbing.

Ada’s powers—

“No,” Ada says firmly, bringing her back to her senses. “It is not your fault, Hecate. We knew what would happen. You did your part.”

“But I didn’t,” Hecate argues weakly, clenching her fingers beneath the weight of Ada’s hand.

“ _Yes_ , you _did_.” Ada’s reply is so certain, so insistent, that Hecate finds herself looking into Ada’s concerned eyes, waiting, watching. “You may not have given your power for the Stone, but you did save it, Hecate. _You_ brought Mildred and the others back. Maybe none of it went to plan, but I’m really not sure there was a plan in the first place.”

And Ada smiles again—this time warm and gentle, moving to clasp both of Hecate’s hands softly in her own. “You did your part, Hecate. Really and truly. And I’m grateful.”

Hecate stares at her. Stares and swallows and tries to say something, to feel something, anything else, but instead she feels… empty.

At the least, the potion seems to be providing some relief now; the twinges in her muscles, the tingling of her fingers, have diminished. But she aches. _Everything_ aches. There’s a stabbing pain at the base of her skull, another radiating out from her right hip.

“The clear one,” she says suddenly, managing to gesture toward the table with her fingers. “Fill the dropper.”

Ada does as she’s bid, measuring potion carefully into the dropper, past the tiny notches that mark the usual doses. Fills the dropper, and offers it to Hecate, who swallows again and winces at the acrid flavour of the potion.

Silence passes between them as she closes her eyes, willing the potions to work faster, better. Willing the pain away.

“Miss Pentangle came by on Saturday,” Ada says after a moment, interrupting Hecate’s thoughts.

“Miss P—” Hecate pauses, frowns. There was more pressing information there, pressing enough that all thought of Pippa is banished from her tired mind almost as soon as she enters it. “Saturday.”

“Yes.”

“What day is it?”

Ada’s smile is wan again. Distant. Her palm buffs Hecate’s knuckles. Her hands feel almost hot, Hecate realises; her own skin must be like ice. “The fifth of November.”

Hecate squeezes her eyes shut again.

“Five days,” she mumbles, absorbing the information. Can she really have been unconscious for five days? It’s no wonder her body aches like this; all the medicinal properties of potions taken daily… And then her thoughts shift once more, clinging to thoughts of the others who had suffered the same fate. “And you? How long?”

“Two days.”

“The girls?”

“They barely felt it,” Ada assures her. “Felicity stayed abed an extra day—understandable, given she went longest without her magic—but she’s quite well now. We’ve all been warned not to attempt any magic for the week, and the rest of the girls have gotten a reprieve as well, given the circumstances.”

Hecate nods weakly; even she cannot— _would_ not—challenge the wisdom of resting their powers now. She is quiet for a long span, absorbing the information to the best of her ability: Ada certainly froze before her, and she has more than sixty years of magic within her, yet Hecate has been unconscious more than twice as long, and she feels nothing, not the barest spark of magic. Emptiness.

She fights down the panic, screws her eyes shut, breathes. “But—your magic,” she says, fighting to keep her voice steady, seeking reassurance. “You can—you can feel it. Returning?”

“I can,” Ada repeats without hesitation, so firmly Hecate’s eyes fly open again.

She stares at Ada, wide-eyed and afraid; sees certainty in her blue eyes, and manages to nod again.

“Yours will come too,” Ada says softly, but with certainty. When she smiles—so sweet, so _Ada_ , Hecate wants to smile back, but can’t quite muster one up. But it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter, because Ada squeezes her hand one more time, stands slowly, and murmurs: “Rest, now. We’ll talk later.”

She must be more exhausted than she knows, or the dose of the second potion stronger than she realised, because when she wakes next, she doesn’t even remember Ada making it to the door.

* * *

She spends most of the next few days in and out of consciousness. Wakes long enough to take her potions, long enough for a few brief conversations with Ada. Long enough to have soup spooned past her lips, again by Ada, only Ada—curtains drawn around the bed to hide that she must be _fed_ —that her hands tremble so severely she could not hold a spoon steady even if she could control her grip.

“It’s temporary, Hecate,” Ada murmurs sternly when Hecate waves the bowl away before they’ve even begun on the second day, speaking quietly enough to keep the conversation private. “And even if it were permanent, it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“It’s absurd,” Hecate complains, staring fixedly at the far wall rather than meet Ada’s eye, her own hands tangled up together, pressing a thumb hard into the palm of her other hand. She wants a hot bath, wants to stretch, wants anything but the tension seizing at her and the flares of pain across her shoulders and the weakness brought on by her lack of magic. Anything but the trembling of her hands when she tries to do anything at all other than _lie here_ like some sort of… some sort of _invalid_ she thinks, disgusted with her body, with its weakness and betrayal, with the fragility of this magickless, brittle form.

“You have to eat,” Ada replies. “And—will you look at me, Hecate?”

Hecate swallows, turns her head just slightly, enough to glance sideways at Ada. Just enough to see the sincerity on her face.

“And I, for one, am happy to help with that,” she finishes, satisfied with what Hecate has given. “In fact, so long as you have no requests, I’m disinclined to let anyone else do the job.” She pauses for a moment, waits until Hecate furrows her brow questioningly before she continues. “I owe you a great deal, Hecate, and—”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do,” Ada insists, and her expression quells Hecate’s impulse to retaliate again. “You have stood behind me, beside me, and in front of me when I needed you, Hecate Hardbroom. You have done a very great deal for me, and if I can repay you in any small way by feeding you soup, then I shall do it. Gladly. No matter how many times I have to beg you not to be ashamed of it, or plead with you to eat.”

Hecate yields; there’s nothing else for it. Tries not to think too much about the situation. Focuses instead on the side table covered in cards and sweets.

Something is different. Not that there are more. Something else.

“The cards.” She frowns at them, meets Ada’s arched brow with a questioning look. “They’re all open.”

Ada’s lips twitch, eyes gleaming. “Mildred’s been reading them to you. She apologised in advance for opening them, and said… ah yes, ‘better to ask forgiveness than permission’.”

Hecate blinks, almost forgets to swallow the mouthful of soup Ada sneaks past her lips. “Mildred _Hubble_?” she says slowly.

Ada nods. “Mm. She brings a new card every day. Evidently, most of the others just say ‘get well soon,’ but a very great number of students cared enough to make one. But Mildred’s illustrated hers herself.”

Hecate eyes the pile of cards, notes for the first time the familiar style of Mildred’s art across folded cardstock—she’s caught the girl doodling rather than taking notes enough times, she ought to recognise it in a heartbeat. It’s a landscape, a familiar field behind Cackle’s: a springtime view of the grounds facing away from the castle, tiny flowers carpeting the ground and a clear blue sky over the treeline.

No one has ever done anything like this before—nobody but Pippa, that is, and that was… well, it was thirty-five years ago. Frankly, she doesn’t think she’s ever done anything to _deserve_ something so thoughtful. Yet, somewhere in that pile, are more cards. A card for each day since the Stone. She doesn’t understand; nothing she’s done… 

Hecate looks back at Ada and blinks slowly. Numbly takes another mouthful of soup, a confused silence falling beneath Ada’s kind smile.

* * *

Mildred has always had terrible timing. She just cannot seem to catch Miss Hardbroom whilst she’s awake.

She knows she has woken. Miss Cackle announced it to the school on Wednesday, just as they were preparing to dismiss from supper. But no one else has seen her.

Students aren’t suppose to visit. Not that many want to anyway. Except Mildred, that is, and she isn’t above using her particular predicament as a foot in the door. After that, Miss Balm doesn’t seem to actually mind all that much when she does stay, so long as she’s not too loud or clumsy or disruptive. 

So Mildred does her best to stay out of the way while she keeps Miss Hardbroom company. Even though she never wakes.

It's Friday evening and Millie collapses into the chair beside Miss Hardbroom’s bed with a frown. She wants very much to talk to her. To say how grateful she is for all Miss Hardbroom did to protect her, and Enid and Maud. And everybody. 

Miss Hardbroom is the reason the school is still standing, Mildred thinks. If she hadn’t come when she did, if she hadn’t realised that Miss Mould’s stone wasn’t _the_ Stone… 

...well, Mildred would probably not be in a magical school right now. Not unless Miss Pentangle had a new scholarship open. And Maud would be at Miss Amulet’s, and Enid would be… Mildred doesn’t know enough about magical schools to know which schools Enid hasn’t already been expelled from, actually. And that’s all assuming that they hadn’t been stuck in the ice forever and ever. (It’s over now, but Mildred still prefers to imagine that her mum really could have freed everybody left in the school with hugs. That Maud and Enid and Felicity and Miss Cackle would have been fine, because Mum couldn’t hug the whole school, but she could certainly hug four more people and make sure they were okay, even if the castle wasn’t—even if they’d never practice magic at Cackle’s again.)

The point is, Miss Cackle might have been very proud of Maud and Enid and Mildred herself, but Mildred thinks, for her own part, she’s most proud of Miss Hardbroom. And maybe that’s silly, being proud of an adult, but she is. She’s proud and grateful, and she wants to thank Miss Hardbroom for everything she’s done.

Most of all though, she wants her to get better.

“Sorry there aren’t any more cards to read,” she says quietly, boots scuffing the floor a bit before she remembers that she’s meant to be as un-disruptive as possible. Instead, she leans forward to scratch behind Morgana’s ears, offering out a hand for inspection. Miss Hardbroom’s familiar fixes her with the usual stern stare, but stretches out her neck to size up Mildred. Headbutts the hand, and curls a paw under, nestling her head back into her mistress’ side. 

She chirps when Mildred runs her fingers through sleek fur; Mildred sighs, glances down at the card in her lap.

“I’ve made you another, though. I drew you a toad this time. I was going to draw a frog, because some of them are quite pretty, but I think maybe I’ve had enough of those.” In fact, she’s had enough frogs for a lifetime. _Being_ one for a few hours last year saw to that.

She bites her lip, trying to think of something to say, since she doesn’t have cards to read. She grins suddenly, glancing down at the watercolour toad before raising it into Miss Hardbroom’s line of sight, on the off-chance that she should suddenly awaken to see it. “You can tell it’s a toad because of the bumpy skin and how it’s—well, it’s sort of fat, I guess, compared to a frog. And you can’t see it in the picture, but toads usually crawl; they don’t really hop much, and they live on land instead of in the water.”

For a moment, Mildred swears Miss Hardbroom’s eyelids flutter. She waits, and one of her long fingers curls into Morgana’s black fur. The cat purrs, but Miss Hardbroom doesn’t stir again, so she continues.

“Anyway, speaking of toads and frogs, I’ve been studying, and maybe… maybe it’ll just help if I recite some potions ingredients? In class today, Miss Drill—she’s doing a really good job, by the way—oh, but not as good as you, of course—was going over a healing potion she says is really good for sports injuries, like broken bones and stuff. Maud and Enid and Felicity and I aren’t allowed to actually _do_ potions right now, but we were able to measure out ingredients and we’re supposed to try to learn the potion for next week, if we’re able. I think it’s going to be okay, because I can feel my magic coming back, and Maud and Enid both say they can too.’

Mildred leans forward, dropping her voice even lower. “Just between you and me, I think Enid is taking it worst of all the kids. She says it’s because it’s harder for her to prank people without magic, but I’m not so sure.” 

Secretly, Mildred thinks it’s much more than that. But she’s willing to wait until Enid is okay with talking about it. If she ever is.

Mildred can be patient. Like she is now, sitting beside Miss Hardbrooms sickbed, waiting for her to wake up.

“So the potion… it’s, um...frog’s blood, and eucalyptus leaves… feather of a raven…”

“ _Mildred Hubble_.” 

Mildred jumps despite the sluggish slur of her teacher's voice, eyes wide as she gazes at Miss Hardbroom where she lies in the bed, eyes still closed. 

“Yes, Miss Hardbroom?”

“Are you trying to craft a healing potion, or an explosive substance?”

“Um, a healing potion?” Mildred replies, too caught-off by the teacher’s question to say anything more.

“Then you shall want feather of _crow_ ,” the Deputy Headmistress says, as sternly as ever despite the weakness in her voice.

Mildred catches herself grinning suddenly—she can’t help it. She grins and ducks her head to glance at the card in her lap and repeats: “Frog’s blood, and eucalyptus leaves, and feather of a crow. Then you stir until it’s sort of a lavender colour, which is a bit odd, since none of those ingredients seem like they’d turn that colour, but I guess I’ve seen weirder…” Mildred trails off, nibbles her lip for a moment.

Spells don’t seem quite as important as a thank you.

“Miss Hardbroom, I just wanted to say...” Mildred trails off when Miss Hardbroom gives a particularly long breath. Not like a sigh, just a breath, right on the verge of a snore. “Miss Hardbroom?” 

No answer.

Mildred grins. She didn’t get to say what she really wanted to say, but at least she knows HB is still HB. That’s good enough for now.

She stands, sets the card on the side table, and leans over to give Morgana another scritch. 

“Take care of your mistress, then,” she says quietly, before looking back at the sleeping form in the middle of the bed. “Feel better soon, Miss Hardbroom. Cackle’s isn’t the same without you.”

* * *

Pippa wakes early Saturday morning. Dons a warm cloak, leaves a note of thanks for her Deputy, and leaves for Cackle's by broomstick. It's a bitterly cold flight, but some of that surely has less to do with the weather than with her mood.

Her relationship with Hecate is not where she'd hoped it would be. Nowhere near where she wanted them to be this long after their reconnection after the Spelling Bee. She had hoped they would slip seamlessly back into friendly and frank, open conversations, and academic tiffs, and smiles and laughter and unhurried cheek kisses. 

They hadn’t. 

Maybe her expectations were just too high; Hecate was always guarded. And Cackle's has had a difficult few months. Which, she’s ashamed to admit, her day-long stint teaching there had not helped at all.

Pippa might have only ever had the best of intentions when she went, but that doesn’t mean much in the grand scheme of things.

And now Hecate is more guarded than ever, wary and closed-off. Pippa feels like she's peeling layers out of the Earth's mantle itself. She can't find a way in.

And she so desperately wants a way back in.

She lands at Cackle’s feeling strangely heavy. She knows Hecate has awakened, that there’s a chance of speaking to her today, but she doesn’t know how that might go. Hecate isn’t one for pity, does not suffer weakness—particularly her own—very easily at all. Pippa typically has no problem feeling hopeful, but now she has to force down her trepidation to allow hope to bloom on the surface.

Hecate is here. She is conscious, and she is physically and mentally whole. And Miss Cackle and the girls have their magic back, growing and recuperating much like their bodies, so Hecate—well, Hecate’s magic should come back too. She should be truly whole. Soon.

Pippa greets Miss Balm in the infirmary, gets a slight bow in response as she inquires over Hecate’s wellbeing.

“Not awake yet, today, but she’s eating a bit, when she can,” Miss Balm replies, accompanying Pippa to her bedside.

“Her colour’s better,” Pippa observes, feeling relief flood her at that small change.

“Undoubtedly. Not much stronger, and in more physical pain than one would expect—not a side effect shared by anyone else, actually—but she’s been sitting up some.”

Pippa smiles softly at that, circling around the bed and reaching out to touch Hecate’s hand.

There’s a spark; Pippa jerks back at the flash of pinkish light, at the stinging sensation in her fingertips. Glances up at Miss Balm in alarm. Morgana is upright, tail flicking in agitation as she gazes disapprovingly at the witches on either side of the bed in turn.

Miss Balm stares, first at Pippa, then Morgana, then Hecate’s still-sleeping form, and finally back at Pippa again. Pippa lets her expression do the asking, and the nurse only shrugs in return. “Your magic, maybe?”

“I didn’t do anything, Miss Balm,” Pippa insists. “And that didn’t happen last week.”

They stand in silence for a moment before Miss Balm glances cautiously up at Pippa again. “Miss Pentangle. I think—” She cuts herself off, scrubs at her cheek. “You’re the most magically charged person here right now. The whole staff—well, we didn’t lose our powers, but most of the castle was frozen by the time the Stone was restored. The magic isn’t what it was; we’re all still recovering to some degree.”

Pippa frowns, considers this for a moment. And then it dawns on her: “You think her magic is interacting with mine.”

“Possibly trying to assert itself, yes. Or—or something, I don’t know,” the nurse says with a sigh, hands flapping aimlessly. “It’s not as if this kind of thing happens a lot, is it? All quite the mystery, generally speaking.”

Fingers still tingling from the shock, Pippa runs her thumb along her fingertips, gazing down at Hecate’s hand, then up at her face. The thought of even the tiniest bit of magic inside of Hecate, reclaiming her body as its own… 

For a moment, she’s so overwhelmed she thinks she might cry; swallows back the tears, clears her throat, and gazes fixedly at Miss Balm.

“The Council has already determined that she’s best off here in the school, given the circumstances—that all of you are, for the same reason the Founding Stones exist in the first place. Because the Stone radiates magic, giving young witches a source outside of themselves to draw on, and—and _nurturing_ the magic already inside of them.” At the nurse’s absent nod, Pippa splays her hands in front of her, gesturing aimlessly. “Miss Balm, could another witch’s magic do the same? Nurture the magic already inside of her, make it stronger?”

Miss Balm shakes her head. “Miss Pentangle, I’m sorry, but you’re stepping into unexplored waters there. There’s no research, nothing. If you want to stand in here and cast spells all day, that’s fine, but—”

“I’m not suggesting spells, Miss Balm,” Pippa interrupts, gesturing between herself and Hecate. “I’m talking about sharing magic.”

The nurse actually barks a quiet laugh at that. “Perhaps, but.... Pooling magic for spells as a Coven is one thing, but an exchange of magic without giving it up completely? It’s unprecedented.”

Pippa frowns. “But it’s not.”

“I’m sorry?”

For a brief moment, Pippa is silent. She isn’t certain how many people know about the magical boost she’d given Mildred, and she’s disinclined to tell all for the sake of making a point; it might have repercussions for Mildred, and in hindsight, it might not have been her wisest decision of the day. She wouldn’t change the decision if she had the chance, of course—no real harm had come of it, and she’d given Mildred a leg up on that dreadful, dreadful bully of a Hallow girl—but that doesn’t mean it’s wise to tout it to Miss Balm; she wants to keep the nurse’s trust, after all.

Still, magic is an organic thing; it lives and breathes and grows at its own rate. It cannot be forced along, can only be nurtured or confined and repressed, and although it grows, although it regenerates, it cannot be manifested out of the aether: any sudden spike in magic _must_ come from _somewhere_. It’s fundamental magical theory, really; she wonders briefly if Hecate ever realised, ever drew that connection. Ever realised that Pippa had not boosted Mildred’s magic at all—a frankly impossible feat—but had, in fact, supplemented it with her own.

But it doesn’t matter—not really, not now. She keeps her silence on the issue and fixes Miss Balm with a pointed, knowing look.

“It requires a different mindset, but it’s certainly possible, Miss Balm.”

One of the benefits of exploring the limitations of witchery is people never ask how—only why, and what were you thinking?, or nothing at all.

They stand there in tense silence for a long span before Miss Balm shrugs, offering up a helpless wave of her hands in reply. “I don’t see how you could harm anyone but yourself with the attempt, Miss Pentangle. I would ask that you do yourself a favor and not use up all your own magic on some absurd fantasy.”

Pippa smiles mirthlessly. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Miss Balm.”

Except that she would. In an instant, she would, if it meant Hecate could have her magic back. Because Hecate Hardbroom is the Craftiest, witchiest witch she knows, and if anyone deserves to have her magic, it’s _her_.

Pippa swallows, gazing down at Hecate’s hand as Miss Balm walks away, back to her office. Reaches out tentatively, lets her fingertips hover near Hecate’s skin, just shy of touching her. When she feels nothing, she places her hand softly against the back of Hecate’s. Again, there’s no reaction, and Pippa sighs, settling down into the chair at the bedside and leaning her elbows onto the bed. Hecate’s hand is cold, her skin taut around her knuckles. For just a moment, Pippa forgets what she’s doing, pads of her fingers ghosting delicate paths down the ridge of bone and back up before curling her fingers gently around Hecate’s hand.

But it’s all the wrong context, the wrong place and time: she barely knows if Hecate would be willing to hold her hand now, were she conscious. She shivers suddenly, coming back to herself. Lets her hand rest against the back of Hecate’s, palm against her curling fingers, her own fingers stretched out toward Hecate’s wrist.

And just as she did with Mildred such a short time ago, Pippa closes her eyes and lets the barest whisper of her own magic flow out of herself, and into Hecate.

* * *

There is something strange inside of her—familiar and yet unfamiliar, like a place visited once, in childhood. There’s no discomfort to it; it’s warm and bright. Effervescent, almost weightless. Tender, but resolute. It curls between her ribs, taking root, then easing up her throat and through her belly, down her limbs… until her fingers and toes tingle with the barest trace of it, that light and warmth, and it’s the most pleasant juxtaposition to the tingling she felt when she awakened that first time, to the way her hands had gone almost numb with the pain radiating through her body.

But it isn’t enough—there could never, _never_ be enough; her body clings to the sensation, craves more of it. And when her body wills it, it comes. Grows in her breast, fills her to bursting, rolls through her body like a wave on the ocean. Consumes her in a rush of something that feels, strangely, like home.

And then she recognizes it, in the vision of a blonde ponytail and slender wrists and a pink, pink smile and honey-brown eyes.

_Pippa’s magic._

Somewhere a thousand miles away from the rest of her body, she feels her hand clasped with Pippa's, stealing her power, her light, taking _everything_ from her.

The thought of harming Pippa in any way is too much to bear.

There's a wail, a desperate keening that she does not recognise as her own voice, as Hecate's eyes fly open. “Pippa? No, Pippa, you can't!” she cries, terror pitching her voice high, the pain from their fingers tangled so tightly together finally registering in her mind, though she cannot bring herself to tear her hand away. “Take it back! Take it back, Pippa—you must—you can't—”

And just like that, it drains back out of her, from that contact point of their palms. She slumps into the pillows, drained and exhausted, and gazes blindly at the ceiling, breath coming in short, ragged gasps, body trembling with effort.

She doesn't know what hurts more: that Pippa would use her magic so cavalierly, or the empty feeling now that it's gone.

She loosens her hold on Pippa's hand at last, but their fingers remain tangled, palms touching, as Pippa’s free hand lands on her cheek, cups her face.

“Hecate, it’s alright,” Pippa murmurs, voice breaking through the fog of panic. “It’s alright. It’s alright. Hecate?”

Hecate listens, lets the sound of Pippa’s voice steady her as she wills her body to settle, wills her throat to loosen, her vocal chords to work again. “Pippa… Pippa, your magic. How—how could—?”

“It's okay, Hecate,” Pippa repeats, shifting her grip on Hecate's hand, squeezing gently. “All I did was give—”

“No, I. I was taking it. You were letting me take—I can't— How could you let me—?”

“Hecate, _I'm fine_ ,” Pippa insists, and Hecate looks at her, really looks at her, sees the softness in Pippa's gaze before she turns her attention to the other end of the room for a moment.

Hecate follows her gaze, sees the nurse with her arms crossed and her lips pursed, concern knitting her brow. At the sudden realisation that they have an audience, Hecate draws her own mouth into a tight line, wills herself to calm down. Breathes, long and deep, and turns to Pippa again.

“How?” she asks weakly, eyes trailing down to their joined hands, following the path of Pippa’s thumb across her knuckles.

“The same way I shared my magic with Mildred, of course.”

Hecate snorts—even manages to roll her eyes; she’s still sour about that. To give a witch unaccustomed to that sort of power, unversed in its control… 

“Only this time,” Pippa continues, only the subtle lift of her brows betraying that she noticed at all, “I left the channel open. Honestly, there’s little difference between this and the pooling of magic for a jointly cast spell; it’s all about mindset. I’m quite certain the only reason everyone thinks it’s impossible is nobody’s bothered to try. For good reason, no doubt—casting jointly is inarguably more efficient than channeling it through a single caster, but it’s hardly some great feat.”

Pippa always was passionate about new things—especially new ways of _doing_ ; Hecate watches for a moment as she grows more impassioned, then closes her eyes, blowing out a breath. When Pippa falls silent, she purses her lips, desperate to formulate some logical argument, but too drained to focus. She can only fall back on the same question:

“But how could you let me—?”

“Stop it,” Pippa demands, and Hecate’s eyes fly open. She can’t remember Pippa ever being so… sharp. But just as suddenly, she is soft again—soft and warm and tender, with her free hand against Hecate’s cheek, brushing at a salt-sticky tear Hecate does not remember crying. “You could never have taken it all, Hecate. You couldn’t have taken any of it if I hadn’t let you. And—” She hesitates, gives Hecate a careful look before finishing: “Not to rub salt into a wound, but—Hecate, dear, my powers are intact. Sharing a bit of them with you isn’t going to hurt me.”

“It wasn’t just _a bit_ , Pippa,” Hecate argues. She’d felt so full—so _much_. Overflowing with magic.

“Maybe not, but it wasn’t a lot, either.”

Hecate finds herself weighing the sincerity of Pippa’s response. She’s never been opposed to a white lie here or there, and even in school she had rarely batted an eye at subtle manipulation.

“I wouldn’t lie to you, Hecate,” Pippa says quietly, and Hecate suddenly feels guilty, caught-out. But Pippa only looks sad—not angry, not hurt. “I think… I don’t know, Hiccup. Maybe it’s because it’s my magic, so it’s foreign to you, or—your capacity for magic might have changed in the past week, and that might need to recover too, or maybe it’s just that your perception of it has changed because you’ve had so little of it recently. It’s all unprecedented, isn’t it? There are mentions of witches needing time to recover their magic after being subjected to a failing Founding Stone in historical records, but nothing specific—no mention of how long it took, or if some witches took longer than others to recover… Nothing that I’ve found, at least.”

Pippa trails off, shrugging helplessly, and Hecate only watches her, puzzled and weary, with one thought echoing in her mind: Pippa has been researching past instances of failed Stones.

And Pippa has always sought new and exciting knowledge for the sake of enjoyment, but Hecate can’t quite quash the feeling that this time, it’s for Cackle’s, for its staff and students. For her. She swallows, tells herself that isn’t possible, that it is curiosity that drives Pippa.

But she keeps coming back to the look in Pippa’s eyes. To the steady trail of her thumb against Hecate’s flesh. To the idea that she is something more to Pippa than the witchiest of witches, more than a person she might aspire to be like in that one way.

She really cannot cling to these absurd fantasies.

Really, she’s not sure if Mildred Hubble’s voice excitedly declaring: “Miss Hardbroom! You’re awake!” is a welcome interruption or not.

She glances towards the door as Mildred pulls up short with dawning realisation on her face. “Oh! Well met, Miss Pentangle!” she adds, raising her palm to her forehead and dropping a sloppy bow.

“Well met, Mildred,” Pippa replies with a sedate amiability Hecate could never hope to mimic. “How are you feeling?”

“Better, thank you,” Mildred replies, but her gaze is cast downward, towards the bed. Hecate turns her attention resolutely towards the ceiling as she slips her hand from Pippa’s, clenching her fingers at her side as Mildred adds: “I can start using magic again on Monday.”

“That’s wonderful news,” Pippa says. Adds after only the barest pause: “I’m so sorry, Mildred, but now isn’t really the best time.”

Hecate opens her eyes to glance at Pippa, but the other witch’s face is the perfect mask of placid apology.

“Oh,” Mildred says, sounding a little downcast. “Of course. Sorry, I didn’t realise you were visiting.” The sound of her boots scuffing against the stone floor is grating. “I’m glad you are, though.”

Hecate cannot begin to fathom what she might mean by that, but Pippa smiles, warm and bright.

“Me too.”

Closing her eyes again at the sound of Mildred’s retreating footsteps, Hecate sighs quietly, letting her head drop further into the pillow. She’s tense, she realises—wills the stiffness out of her muscles, wills herself to relax into the bed.

“I—I’m sorry, I just—” Mildred’s voice starts again, suddenly. “Could I—? What I wanted to say was—” And then, before Hecate has quite gathered her bearings, there’s a weight against her chest, sending a shock of pain through her core—enough to make her wince, to make her clench her teeth—and Mildred Hubble’s arms are tucked around her in an awkward hug. Hecate’s heart races, limbs tensing reflexively again at the display. “Thank you, Miss Hardbroom,” Mildred says, words muffled against Hecate’s shoulder. “For coming to get us, and for knowing Miss Mould was lying, and… well, for everything.”

Hecate gapes, taken off-guard, and just as suddenly Mildred retreats. Hecate chances a glance at her where she stands, biting her lip, for only a moment before turning on her heel and scurrying off towards the door.

She’s almost afraid to try to relax in the wake of the unexpected display. And then Pippa’s hand touches hers again. Hecate turns towards her as she stands, only to lower herself to the bed with Hecate’s hand clasped warmly between both of her own. Her brows are knit with concern, and Hecate closes her eyes, purses her lips.

“Are you alright?”

Hecate swallows at the question. She wants to say yes, to deny her pain, but she can’t quite summon her voice. Instead, she takes a long breath in, exhales slowly. Squeezes her eyes all the more tightly shut as Pippa’s palm glides gently across the back of her hand and wrist, then back again.

“Hiccup?”

“I need to be in my room,” Hecate says suddenly, weakly. “There’s no privacy here.” And she cannot remain here, on display, for anyone at all to see, to touch.

“I know,” Pippa murmurs. “But… Hiccup, will you let me give you a bit of my magic? Please?”

“Pippa, you can’t—”

“I don’t lose anything, Hecate. Really,” Pippa pleads. Hecate looks at her, sees the sincerity in her eyes. “When… when you were still sleeping, I touched your hand, and your magic sparked. Maybe you can’t feel it, but I did. Miss Balm suggested that maybe it was your magic trying to assert itself. I don’t know, but… well, if I give you just a bit of mine, what’s the worst that can happen, Hecate? Worst case, it gives you a little strength. But what if it could encourage your magic to grow, to be stronger again?”

“That’s not possible, Pip—”

“Who says?” Pippa insists. “The magic from a Founding Stone nourishes young witches’ magic, supplements our own. Why couldn’t another source of magic do the same? It’s not as if a little of my magic is going to trample yours,” she adds, a little humour entering her voice. “Your magic was always much too stubborn for that.”

They’re fair enough points.

Hecate hesitates for another moment, then purses her lips and offers a resolute nod. And Pippa’s responding smile, the touch of her hand, is so bright, so tender, she wants to melt. To disappear into the warmth of her and never emerge again. And she remembers, as Pippa’s magic slowly unfurls inside of her again, that this was their childhood. Not the sharing of magic, of course, but the softness of her, the effervescence, her unerring light.

She does not have the constitution to resist the tears that spark in her eyes—at the memory, at the familiar sensation of Pippa's magic, the very essence of her, blooming within her breast.

There’s a long moment of silence that Pippa’s voice breaks only tremulously. “Oh, Hiccup.”

And she bends. Presses a kiss to Hecate's cheek. Squeezes her hand.

“It'll be alright, Hecate. Everything is going to be fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll try to include relevant CWs at the beginning of each chapter from here on out.
> 
> And again, if anything didn't ring true, please don't hesitate at all to contact me on tumblr at @troiing.
> 
> Stay tuned for another chapter in a few days!


	2. one bright moment is all i ask

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to note a vital part of the writing process for this fic in chapter one, so I want to address that now. This fic would not be remotely what it is if it weren't for the book "Maim Your Characters" by Samantha Keel - you might know her as Aunt Scripty, or scriptmedic on tumblr. A lot of what you'll see in coming chapters is taken straight from Keel's analysis of how injury plots work, and how to _make_ them work. This may not be your standard injury plot, but it still wouldn't be the same without the help of Maim.
> 
> I strongly recommend it (and "Blood on the Page" for analysis of specific injuries) to anyone interested in writing injuries in fiction!
> 
>  **CW** in this one for general brain weasels. Feelings of worthlessness as well as hints of ableist thinking.

Pippa’s magic does help. Hecate’s hands stop trembling long enough to feed herself (if she holds the spoon clumsily, grips it too tightly, Pippa does not remark), to move up to her own room and settle. The move, the exertion required to take all those stairs, warrants a nap. After that, she manages a hot shower, stands under the running water as long as she can, and when she cannot stand any longer she stoppers up the tub and soaks in the bath with the water as hot as she can stand it. These are luxuries she does not usually allow herself. A strict fifteen minute soak to warm and relax her muscles before exercising, or after a particularly difficult day, is usually enough; shower spells are so much more convenient for hygienic purposes, and save a great deal of time during long and busy days filled with classes and marking and detentions and patrols and all manner of administrative duties.

Not knowing when she will be able to do those things again frustrates her and, perhaps even worse, makes her feel utterly useless. But this is nothing compared to her inability to cast. She’s barely even managed to wash her body today—hasn’t so much as touched her hair.

She has already resolved not to use Pippa’s magic, to hold it inside of her and let it do what it will. Technically, she is strictly prohibited from performing magic for her own wellbeing at the moment, but Miss Balm’s opinion frankly doesn’t matter much to her in her current state.

She knows that her magic is impossibly fragile. She knows that she must nurse it back to health.

She wishes that her body did not have to be nursed back to health in the meantime.

A quiet knock comes on the door mid-afternoon—after she has finished the soup Miss Thyme brought up to her for lunch, but before she’s quite committed to reorganising her personal bookshelves as a means of distraction.

“Enter,” she calls, and turns to see Pippa’s blonde head peek through the door.

“You’re still here,” Hecate remarks, pushing a stubborn lock of hair back behind her ear. Evidently, she sounds unwelcoming, because Pippa’s smile falters a little. She clears her throat, does her best to soften her tone. “I thought you’d left.”

“No, no,” Pippa says, flicking her fingers dismissively. “I’ve just been with Miss Cackle.”

Hecate does not get much time to consider why Pippa might have been with Ada for the last several hours, because she suddenly produces a rattling tin from behind her back. As Morgana leaps down from her perch on the bed to investigate, weaving around Pippa’s legs with a purr, Hecate frowns slightly.

“I don’t know how your appetite is, but I know they’re mostly just feeding you soup, so. Some nuts, dried fruit. Just a few tidbits to tide you over until supper, if you’re up for them. I—” Pippa pauses for a moment, looking suddenly uncertain, but the expression is gone almost as soon as it appears. “I assume you’re still eating a couple of smaller meals during the day?”

The thoughtfulness warms Hecate more than it ought to, more than she can say. She drops her gaze for a moment, fiddles with her watch chain as she remembers their early school days—when Pippa had snuck tidbits from the kitchens for her between meals, or brought her semi-sweet biscuits from home; and, later, when Pippa had accompanied her to the kitchens when she went down for the snacks Cook devotedly kept about for her.

Even since the Spelling Bee and their reunion, Hecate’s relationship with Pippa has been… rocky, to say the least. She has spent so long convincing herself that their friendship never could have lasted, that Pippa had every reason to hate her, that it is easy to be guarded and cautious, so easy not to trust.

And yet, here she is, with a tin of snacks in her hand—such a small gesture, but such a thoughtful one. And here Hecate is, with Pippa’s magic inside of her, quite literally giving her the strength to stand upright, to square her shoulders and meet Pippa’s gaze, and Hecate remembers that, for all Pippa’s sometimes overbearing enthusiasm, for all that Hecate has watched her step on more than a few toes in her exuberance, she is thoughtful, and caring, and _good_.

And Hecate doesn’t deserve any of it.

“I am,” she manages quietly. “Thank you.”

Pippa seems to take this as permission, moves a few steps further into the room to set the tin on Hecate’s desk. “You’re welcome,” she replies, just as softly.

“Actually, Morgana becomes quite… _ornery_ ”—Hecate pointedly ignores the disapproving look from the fluffy black cat at Pippa’s feet—“if I don’t keep to my meal schedule, so… it should be quite helpful, I think.”

“Good. I’m glad,” Pippa says.

The conversation feels so awkward, so stilted, Hecate feels her chest clench up a little.

But then Pippa moves closer, and she has a hand outstretched between them, palm up, as if inviting Hecate to give over her own hand. “Come sit,” she suggests softly. “Let me do your hair. I don’t know if that bun of yours is quite in my repertoire, but I can plait it, at the very least.”

Hecate’s impulse is to refuse. Yet, left to dry on its own, and without the aid of magic, taming her hair seems like an insurmountable obstacle. Managing its length and curls is a lesson she knows she will have to learn, and soon, but for now she nods, reaches out to place her hand uncertainly within Pippa’s, and lets herself be led to the bed, where Pippa settles on her knees behind her with brush and pins.

“Do you want it up, or just plaited?” Pippa asks as she works her fingers gently through a few tangles at the ends.

“It doesn’t matter.” Which is unhelpful, but true: if she cannot wear it the way she has for some thirty-five years, what it looks like makes little difference, so long as it is tidy and out of the way.

Pippa does not seem to mind; she merely picks up the brush, and works patiently at Hecate’s hair until it is smooth and free of tangles.

“Are you feeling better?”

Hecate hesitates for a moment, then gives one quick, small nod. “Yes.”

“Good.” Pippa rises up behind her, combs back a bit of hair to start a french plait. It feels nice, Hecate realises, but she doesn’t allow herself to dwell on the thought. “I don’t know how long my magic will last if you don’t use it, but… well, I’d like to think that won’t matter. Hopefully your own magic will take its place before that happens. Ada… seems to be doing well. She won’t be participating in any duels any time soon, but she seems certain it’s growing day by day. Just a little, just… slowly, but growing. So that’s something.”

“I suppose so,” Hecate murmurs, though the reality of the situation is truly beginning to sink in. It is not just her magic she has lost; it’s very much her way of life—and her way of combating, or at least navigating, the pain that follows her everywhere she goes.

Morgana brushes against her ankles; Hecate takes stock of her body, then moves her hands out of her lap, and the cat leaps easily into her lap to settle, curled against her belly.

For a moment, Pippa doesn’t reply. Then she tries again: “I’d like to write a paper about this. Or co-author one, at least.”

Hecate winces at the suggestion, that old distrust flaring up again, with the uninvited thought that Pippa is only here to use them. She curls her fingers into Morgana’s fur and closes her eyes, parting her lips to speak again.

But Pippa beats her to it. “There’s just nothing left from the rare instances of this happening before. It doesn’t matter that Founding Stones fail so rarely—knowledge of what happens, what to do, what to _expect_ should be accessible. Some old witch who saved her coven by restoring a Stone’s power two hundred and fifty years ago shouldn’t be a bedtime story. Mirabelle Hubble sacrificing twelve generations of magic to restore a Stone and save her Coven should be in every piece of literature regarding Founding Stones, as should the fact that magic doesn’t just—just miraculously return to the witches and wizards who were near it when it failed. It should—”

“Pippa.”

As much as it softens her that Pippa cares about more than just another published article, Hecate does not have the energy for one of her lengthy commentaries.

Pippa seems to understand. “Sorry,” she says softly. “I’m… I’m just… frustrated.”

“ _You’re_ frustrated?” She can’t quite keep the barb out of her tone.

“Yes,” Pippa replies gently. “I want to help, but I don’t know how.”

Hecate swallows, absently stroking Morgana’s cheek with a curled finger. “You don’t have to, Pippa. It’s not your obligation.”

Pippa sighs quietly behind her, twisting an elastic into the braid at the crown of her head. “That doesn’t mean I don’t want to, Hiccup.”

Hecate can’t imagine why Pippa would want to expend her time and energy here, on Cackle’s. On her. But she does not argue—falls silent again instead, as Pippa draws the rest of her hair up level with the plait, twisting it into a bun.

“Miss Cackle offered me a guest room, if I wanted to stay the night,” Pippa says quietly as she fixes a pin into Hecate’s hair. But I… I didn’t want to accept, without knowing if you were okay with it.”

Flexing her fingers, Hecate hesitates. “You’re Miss Cackle’s guest, not mine,” she says carefully.

Pippa gives a short, breathy laugh behind her, and Hecate can’t imagine what it means. Still, she keeps fixing pins into Hecate’s hair, securing the bun against her head with deft, careful fingers. “And yet, I still find myself wanting your opinion,” she replies with equal care, tone veiled and unreadable.

There’s another long stretch of silence before Hecate relents, closing her eyes and breathing deeply. “Then stay,” she mumbles.

Finished with the bun, Pippa slides a hand down to Hecate’s shoulder, squeezes gently. “Okay.”

* * *

Pippa spends the rest of her afternoon with Miss Cackle—who, while initially a bit wary, seems to have come around to the belief that Pippa really is here to help. She’s not blind, likely realises Pippa is most interested in Hecate, but they don’t speak of it. Instead, Pippa helps Ada with several logistical issues, joins the staff and students for dinner, and passes a span with Mildred Hubble, who gives her a card with a delightful painting of a black cat and asks her to please take it to Miss Hardbroom if she’s going up to see her again.

She does visit, to wish Hecate goodnight; but this time when she knocks, there is no answer despite that a sliver of light shines from beneath the door. Pippa eases the door open to stick her head in. Finds Hecate perched on the edge of the bed, face pressed into trembling hands, Morgana circling her feet in agitation.

“Hecate?” she asks softly, still halfway in the door.

“I'm fine,” Hecate replies too quickly, not looking up.

Pippa slips inside, closing the door gently while she glances around the room, taking stock of her surroundings. Hecate is dressed in a conservative nightgown, hair mostly free from its bun—a few pins have bits of it hung up in a tangled mess—and her dress from the day hangs haphazardly in the open wardrobe. Something, an energy, hangs restless in the air. Pippa frowns, focuses. Feels nothing in particular. But, eyeing Hecate for a moment, she carefully sheathes her magic, tamps it deep down inside of herself. She closes her eyes, breathes, and recognizes the tingle of her own magic in the air, tinged with something dark and uncertain.

“What have you done, Hecate?” she asks softly. She isn’t trying to sound accusatory, but Hecate flinches anyway. “Were you casting?”

Hecate hunches further over her knees, clasps her hands behind her head. “Old habits,” she mumbles into her knees. “Clothes off,” she adds, and Pippa moves a little closer to hear her better. “Nightclothes on, clothes in the wardrobe, hair down…” She shivers a little, then barks a single note of dark laughter, and Pippa’s heart breaks. “It takes so little, usually. I didn’t think.”

“And it took all of mine, because your body is learning to use a new tool.” Hecate doesn’t respond to this, doesn’t move, so Pippa stands in silence for a moment before moving toward her. “Well, give me your hand. I’ve got plenty, and you can’t—”

Hecate flinches away despite that Pippa is still several feet away from her. “I don’t _want_ your magic, Pippa,” she spits, dropping her hands away from her head and staring into her open palms.

Pippa feels something inside of her twist. She sighs softly, wanting nothing more than to reach out. “I know,” she almost whispers. “I know, I know, Hiccup, you want yours, but—”

“It’s been thirty years, Pippa!” Hecate snaps. “Do not presume to know what I’m thinking, what I want!”

Her heart isn’t in it, Pippa can tell. She knows, she _knows_ , despite those words, that this is Hecate Hardbroom defending herself, building up walls, pushing others away out of some absurd perceived need. But that doesn’t stop Pippa from going rigid, straightening to full height with tears sparking in her eyes. From shouting back: “And whose fault is that!?”

For a moment, the air around them is painfully still. And then, Hecate lifts her head. Just a little, just enough. Her eyes fill when they meet Pippa’s, and she jerks her gaze away again suddenly; Pippa can see the way she swallows, hard and heavy, before speaking.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m sorry, I—I didn’t mean that.”

Pippa sighs, deflating a little. Takes a cautious step forward. “I think at least part of you did, Hecate,” she says softly.

Hecate shrinks back as if waiting for a blow, but doesn’t argue the point, and Pippa feels her eyes fill again, feels the impulse to sob overtaking her; after all these years, Hecate is still that stubborn teenager, convinced that everyone else is better off if she is alone. Pippa sucks down the tears, steadies herself as she moves closer still, as Morgana moves to brush against her ankles. At least one of the pair has some sense.

“But I’m here now,” Pippa continues, lowering herself to the edge of the bed beside Hecate and reaching out a tentative hand, offering Hecate’s shoulder the barest touch. “What can I do?”

For a moment, it’s just Hecate’s shaking breath and the whisper of fabric as Morgana weaves and weaves below them, her quick figure-eight patterns slowed, stopping to rub her cheek and sides against their ankles without a purr or meow to be heard.

And then, grasping at her watch with trembling hands, Hecate purses her lips and sighs. “I don’t know,” she whispers, shaking her head slightly. “I’m—I don’t know.”

“Okay,” Pippa murmurs, gripping Hecate’s arm gently. “Okay. Well, let’s start with your hair and go from there. You’ve got a few pins stuck in.”

Hecate hesitates, then nods.

Loathe to use any magic she doesn’t have to with Hecate feeling like this, Pippa stands again, fetches the brush from earlier, finds the dish for her bobby pins. She gathers a few up that made it to the table but not into the dish, slips out of her shoes, and eases into the bed behind Hecate. In the long span of silence that follows, she slips the pins out, untwists the bun; leaves the plait in to keep the hair out of Hecate’s face, but brushes out the length of it with long and careful movements.

She had loved Hecate’s hair when they were girls. Loved brushing it out for her, plaiting it back before bed. And she loves it now: treats it with care, brushes it out until it’s smooth as silk, and hopes that the care she takes with it translates, hopes that Hecate understands just how much Pippa cares about _her_.

Laying the brush aside, Pippa gathers Hecate’s hair up, runs her fingers down the underside from her scalp down to the tips; she catches not a single tangle, not even in the densest curls. And so, satisfied, she moves it out of the way, settling in to rub her back—gently, both hands tracing patterns up and down her spine, across her shoulders, her scapulae—

Hecate cries out, a horrible, strangled sound, body going erect and rigid, and Pippa yanks her hands away.

“Hecate?” She can’t quite keep the worry from clouding her voice. When Hecate doesn’t respond, she clenches her fingers, uncertain what to do with her hands. “Hecate, did—did I hurt you?” she asks unbelievingly. She doesn’t know how she might have done so, but nothing else has changed…

“No,” Hecate says. “No, no, it’s fine.” She doesn’t sound fine.

Pippa considers for a moment. “Then what happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Hecate, that was hardly nothing.”

“I said, it’s nothing,” Hecate spits.

Pippa winces at the tone, at the rigidness of her. Wonders if she shouldn’t just leave. But just leaving has never been an easy thing for Pippa, not where Hecate is concerned.

“Hiccup, please,” she begs, tentatively reaching out, afraid to touch her again. “I want to help. Let me help? Tell me how I can, Hecate.”

Hecate sighs; Pippa watches the breath leave her with trepidation. “You can't.” The words are so quiet, Pippa almost misses them.

She thinks she might cry. “How do you know?”

Hecate seems to consider this for a long span, and Pippa lets her: sits in silence as Hecate straightens a little, rolling her shoulders out gingerly.

“Hecate?” Pippa prompts, voice carefully quiet, calm.

“Because I've lived with it for thirty years, Pippa.” Hecate replies suddenly. Softly. Not with anger, but resolute and certain.

Pippa blinks. Stares at Hecate's back. And then, carefully, she pleads: “Tell me, Hiccup.”

The silence swells between them, but she doesn't ask again. She only kneels, hands in her own lap, and waits. For Hecate to explain or to push her away, she does not know, but she waits.

“I hurt, Pippa,” Hecate almost whispers, rewarding Pippa's patience with a confession. “Every day. Everywhere. It's manageable with magic, with potions. But while I was unconscious I didn't have my potions, and without magic even the simplest tasks—” She pauses, breathes deeply, and Pippa can tell she's trying not to cry. The rest spills out in a rush. “Only Ada knew, before. And now you do, and Miss Balm will have to know because I have—maybe ten days of potion left and it takes three days to brew, and I can't do it myself.”

It takes everything Pippa has not to reach out, to touch her. She wants to, so badly, but doesn't know what she did to hurt her, if she might do it again unintentionally.

So instead of asking about the potion, or Hecate's history with whatever this condition may be, she moves around Hecate, onto the floor. “Can you show me what I did, Hecate? How I hurt you?”

Hecate gazes at her for a long moment, lips drawn into a tight line, then nods slightly, eyes damp. Pippa smiles at her, a small, encouraging smile before turning around, kneeling in front of Hecate.

“Morgana,” Hecate murmurs. Pippa hears the cat give a small meow and shuffle out of the way before Hecate moves forward a little in the bed, hands lighting on Pippa's shoulders as if she's just as afraid of touching Pippa as Pippa is of touching her.

“Here,” she murmurs, brushing her fingers over the tops of Pippa's scapulae; Pippa shivers at the touch, wonders what it must be like to find any of this unpleasant. “You touched here, like this.” And Hecate brushes her hands across Pippa's back, lets her thumbs pass over the spot with just a little pressure. “Does that hurt?”

“No. Not at all,” Pippa answers softly.

“For me, it's… it's tender,” Hecate says haltingly. “Most days, when the pain is under control, it’s okay; some days it doesn’t hurt at all, and usually it's just the right side that causes so much trouble…”

Pippa waits in silence for a moment before asking: “Are there other places?”

“Yes.”

“Show me.”

Hecate's fingers flutter against Pippa's back, float up to her shoulders. “Here,” she says, two fingers putting a little pressure near the middle of her shoulder. “Again, usually the right side. And here.” Her fingers move past Pippa's hairline, finding pressure points at the base of her skull. “Both sides. I think I've forgotten what it feels like not to have a headache.”

“Oh, Hiccup.”

“Don’t—please.”

Pippa swallows at the request, and nods.

Hecate’s hands trail back down to her shoulders, settling a finger and thumb into the tender points she’s named. “Sometimes the pain radiates,” she says, and her fingers splay out until her hands lay outstretched along Pippa’s traps.

Even through the thick fabric of her dress, a chill races up her spine as Hecate moves her hands, tracing Pippa’s shoulder blades downwards.

Then, voice soft, Hecate instructs, “Come up.”

Pippa rises obediently on her knees, shuffling awkwardly back to stay better within Hecate’s reach, and Hecate’s hands go trailing ever so carefully down, stopping at her lower back.

“And here,” she says when she finds the spots, just at the base of Pippa’s back. And then her touch is gone; Pippa hears the brush of fabric, knows she has her hands in her lap.

She pivots, moving to face Hecate, and covers the other witch’s splayed fingers with her own hands. “You said you hurt everywhere,” Pippa reminds her. “Are there other places like those?”

“Yes.”

“You can show me.”

Hecate hesitates. “They are—less relevant, at the moment.”

Pippa parts her lips to speak, then stops to consider. Watches Hecate for a moment, but Hecate has her chin down, not quite meeting her eye. “Would you like me to rub your back, Hiccup?” Pippa asks softly, slowly. “Being careful of those places, of course? Would that help?”

Hecate’s eyes flutter shut. “Pippa, I couldn’t—” 

“They’re yes or no questions, darling,” Pippa murmurs—catches herself in the endearment too late.

Their eyes meet then, Hecate gazing at Pippa through her lashes. She gives a tiny nod. “Yes,” she says, voice just as small as the movement. And then, with a little more certainty: “Please.”

“Okay. Why don’t you lie down. On your stomach. Would that be okay, Hiccup?”

Hecate nods again after a moment of hesitation, but the movement comes with more certainty. She slides her fingers down her watch chain, and Pippa extends a hand for it, palm open.

“I'll take that, if you'd like.”

It feels like a slow and tentative dance. Hecate carefully removes the chain, smoothes her hair down as she passes the watch to Pippa, who folds her fingers carefully around the cool metal and circles the bed to place it at the bedside while Hecate arranges herself on her stomach, arms wrapped around a pillow. Morgana leaps onto the bed too, settles at Hecate’s feet with what Pippa wants to think is an approving look.

Pippa settles at her side again, leaning over Hecate's body, trailing her fingers down her spine, wishing there were something more she could do. Because she does not doubt that this is going to be a long process—that adjusting will continue to be a struggle for Hecate; that her definition of normal is going to change fundamentally for however long it takes her to regain her magic fully.

She wants to wrap Hecate up in her arms and tell her everything is going to be okay. She wants things to be the way they were when they were girls. Wants to fix this with a held hand, a warm embrace, soft cheek kisses and softer words followed by ringing laughter.

But they are not girls, and Pippa is no longer a safe harbour for Hecate. Not a port of call, not a hand to hold. Even now, like this, she isn’t sure if Hecate would ask for her, given the option. And she _aches_ for that—wants so badly for Hecate to want her, to think of her when she needs someone to lean on, to expect and trust that Pippa will be there for her when she is at her worst. Because Pippa would be. A hundred, thousand times over, she would be. She’d fly to Hecate’s side in a heartbeat just to hold her hand and whisper to her that everything is going to be okay.

“Tell me about your potion,” Pippa murmurs. “Could I make it?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“You have it written down, of course?”

“In a journal. An old one. On the shelf behind my desk.”

“Is it alright if I summon it over?” Pippa asks. She can’t stand the idea of upsetting Hecate in any way, wants to make sure using magic is alright. When Hecate nods assent, she focuses on what she wants, and a battered old leather-bound black journal comes flying into her hand.

She keeps tracing careful paths along Hecate’s spine with one hand, flipping the journal open with the other. A long crimson ribbon marks a page about two-thirds of the way through. She finds the potion there, in Hecate’s precise, spindly penmanship, glances it over once, then reads the instructions more carefully. The instructions are complicated, but seem doable. She eyes the ingredient list again, paying it a little more attention.

It’s a mess of ingredients and they don’t seem to fit. Pippa’s no expert in medical potions, but she sees one ingredient she recognises as an antispasmodic, and several others most used to facilitate clear thoughts and positive mindset. She frowns, wondering if she hasn’t somehow managed to acquire the wrong journal.

“Hiccup, is this right?”

“Is page sixty-three marked with a red ribbon? Are the pages after it blank?”

Pippa pauses in her movements, hand resting on Hecate’s back. She flips forward a few pages, then back. Notes many of the same ingredients, similar instructions. Red ink indicating changes.

“Hecate, this whole journal—”

“There was another before it.”

Frowning, Pippa gazes at the journal in her hand, fingers stroking absently up Hecate’s spine again. “Have… have you spent thirty years perfecting this potion?”

Hecate is quiet for a moment before answering. “I haven’t altered it in several years.”

Taken aback, Pippa stares down at the journal. “ _Twenty-five years_ ,” she breathes. “Hecate…”

“I suppose you could call it my life’s work,” Hecate mutters dryly, taking Pippa by surprise with the rare, subtle humour in a moment like this. “Of course I may be the only person who will ever use it.”

It’s as Pippa is considering her response that she notices the trails of pinkish red along Hecate’s back, paths of magic where her hand has touched. She peers up at Hecate’s face, but can’t get a proper look at her expression.

“Is this alright, Hecate?” she asks cautiously.

“Mm?”

“This,” she repeats, stretching her fingers out over Hecate’s back, scratching softly at the fabric of Hecate’s nightgown to indicate the movement of her hands.

“Yes,” Hecate replies after a moment.

So Pippa keeps touching. Keeps letting the magic light her fingertips as she strokes Hecate's back. Keeps doing so until Hecate's breathing is level and deep and slow, until Pippa feels herself drifting off as well.

She never means to stay with Hecate, really. But the way her body moves as she breathes is lulling; touching her like this—gently, warmly, with as much love as she can hold in the palm of her hand—so pleasant, so satisfying, she finds herself on her side, an arm looped carefully over Hecate's back, and she is asleep before she has thought this through.

* * *

Hecate wakes with a weight across the small of her back.

She thinks, at first, that it must be Morgana. But Morgana has always been the sort to find a spot near Hecate’s feet during the night—always close by, but allowing each of them to have their space. She’s only ever slept _on_ Hecate on those rare occasions when, as a teenager, Hecate had fallen asleep cradling the familiar against her chest for comfort.

And then there’s a little noise—a quiet snuffling and a sleepy, nonsense mumble—and Hecate knows that Pippa is beside her, that it’s Pippa’s arm that rests across her body.

Pippa has always fit so easily into Hecate’s empty spaces: the spare inches in her bed; the adjacent seat in the library; on the other side of a shared cauldron; tucked beneath her chin for a hug. She fits perfectly here now, the weight of her arm foreign, but nestled safely and comfortably above her tender points. And for the barest moment, Hecate forgets the loss of her magic, the failure of the Stone, the difficult term, the troubles with Agatha. She forgets her pain, and she forgets the thirty years between them. She lifts her head—her body rebels, but when does it not, at this time of morning?—and blinks blearily at Pippa as she turns to face her.

And she sees the frown—the troubled knit to Pippa's brow, the downturned corner of her mouth—and in that moment it all comes back to her in a rush. Her heart clenches. She wants more than anything to smooth Pippa’s furrowed brow, to kiss the frown from her lips, but Pippa was right: it’s Hecate’s fault, her fault it’s been thirty-three years since she last woke up with Pippa nestled against her side, since she blushed as Pippa flew into her arms and kissed her cheek. Since she realised that she wanted more from Pippa than she could ever ask of her, because Pippa could not possibly want the same thing.

She turns away again, feels the pressure building behind her eyes, and doesn’t have the strength to resist. She curls up on her side and lets the tears come. Because she doesn’t deserve any of what Pippa is offering her. Because she feels helpless and afraid; because it’s only been three days, really, and she feels absolutely absurd and childish for it, but the absence of her magic, however temporarily, leaves her feeling like there’s a hopeless void inside of her. And that her magic should be tied so intimately to her physical constitution is something she had never expected, and a grim outlook indeed.

She’s useless to everyone now, including herself, and she doesn’t remotely deserve the arm that tightens around her waist, the quiet noise Pippa makes as the weight shifts in the bed behind her. The way Pippa’s voice sounds so sad and gentle even when heavy with sleep as she moves closer, “ _Hiccup_ ,” falling from her lips like it hasn’t been thirty-three years at all.

Hecate sobs, curls more tightly into herself, presses her face into the pillow.

“It’s okay, Hiccup,” Pippa says softly, leaning onto one elbow. Her hand glides down Hecate’s arm, folds over it as her fingers wrap around Hecate’s palm. “I’ve got you.”

Pippa’s fingers card through her hair, her body curling snugly against Hecate’s back as she tilts her forehead against the side of Hecate’s head, enveloping her, drawing her in. Hecate lets out another ragged sob. It’s too much, too much, she doesn’t deserve this.

But Pippa only settles in against her, holds her close, murmuring into her ear. “It’s alright, Hiccup. It’s okay. I’m here; I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Hecate believes her. Despite everything, and in spite of herself, she believes her.


	3. tear my hands down; pull back the blinds

It takes some convincing, but Pippa leaves Hecate with a bit of her magic. Again, she finds it makes her feel stronger, nestled comfortably in her chest—and this time, she clings to it, holding it inside of herself for dear life, refusing to let even a bit of it slip through her grasp.

She does so for days. After three days, she is confident in navigating the stairs down to the ground floor and, after a sufficient break, back up again, to the reward of a long soak and a careful stretching session to ease her aching legs and hips. She spends hours in the potions lab while classes aren't in session, cataloging and organising ingredients to keep her mind occupied, and even sits in on a class Miss Drill is standing in for. She only makes it through half the period; Dimity does an adequate job of things, but the students are rambunctious under her tutelage, and Hecate frankly does not have the energy to try to step in and create order out of chaos, nor the patience or constitution to listen to it. So she excuses herself and leaves them be, and hopes that Miss Drill can stick to her lesson plans. They really just cannot afford to fall any further behind.

She does snatch a pile of papers from Dimity’s hands while Miss Drill is leaving the lab after class one day.

“I'll take those, thank you,” she says, and Dimity doesn't question her. In fact, she grins.

“As you like it, HB.”

She surreptitiously goes through Ada's marking too—they've split Hecate's classes between them, since Ada's magic has become stronger—while Ada dozes in front of the fire in her study one evening. Rolls her eyes and informs the Headmistress later that, really, maybe it's best if _she_ does the marking from here on out.

She only does some of it, in the end; her grip is off, and even for a pile of short-answer questions her stamina is low. She strongly suspects that Ada goes through the marking Hecate _does_ finish again after Hecate is done to soften the blow for the students.

Pippa returns that next weekend, and finds Hecate in the lab continuing her inventory of ingredients.

Part of Hecate wants to insist that she do this alone; after all, it is one of a few tasks she is able to perform, at the moment; the ingredients are not heavy, and the repetitive actions are somewhat relaxing despite that they do leave her arms a bit sore. But she has done enough to distance herself from Pippa, so she swallows her pride and nods her silent assent when Pippa offers to help.

She's only just gotten started, really, and it's slow going. She can inventory the whole lab on a good weekend with levitation and scale spells, but for now she must do things the non-magical way. The slow way.

Pippa does not offer to help with magic. Hecate finds this curious, but does not remark on it—finds herself feeling a little grateful for the companionship. She lets Pippa slip in beside her, zeroing the scale and scooping ingredients and stowing them carefully back in their respective drawers and jars and tins as needed. And they work well together, almost silent, only the names of ingredients and measurements spoken between them for a span. It's nice. Very nice. Hecate busies her hands and mind with the work and with Pippa’s presence, and even manages to do a very good job of not thinking about the potion Pippa had promised to brew.

She’s spoken to her twice, early in the week, both times to answer inquiries about Hecate’s notes and best practices with some of the ingredients—to both their benefits, most of her directions are written in longhand despite the long years of work behind the potion, so they are, generally speaking, readily understandable. Pippa has not updated her since, but… well, Hecate trusts her. Despite everything.

Hecate is well and truly pulled out of her thoughts when Pippa observes with a wrinkled nose (Hecate makes it a point not to look, because that particular thoughtful expression had always been a distraction): “This is an awful lot of fenugreek.”

Hecate hums acknowledgment. “Miss Balm insists on keeping a supply.”

Pippa frowns thoughtfully, then the frown becomes a bemused half-smile. “She must be treating a great deal of dandruff,” she jokes, and Hecate snorts in response. “I haven't seen any nursing mothers around, anyway.”

Hecate arches a brow. Pippa shrugs at her.

“Those are the two medical uses I know at our students’ level, anyway,” the other witch says pointedly, with a dismissive wave of her hand.

And Hecate actually laughs. A brief gust of a laugh, but a laugh nevertheless. “She uses it to flavour some of the medical potions,” she explains after a moment.

“Ah. Well that makes sense.”

“Does it?” Hecate asks blandly.

“Sure. It's not terribly volatile, and could safely be added to most potions in the final stages of brewing… and it does have a pleasant taste.”

“I never saw the appeal.”

“You also never liked maple syrup,” Pippa says pointedly, brandishing a spatula at her.

Hecate furrows her brows at that, frowning. “I'm afraid I don't follow. Fescue, tufted.”

Pippa rolls her eyes good-naturedly, and Hecate realises suddenly that she's enjoying herself, and that Pippa knows it. She flushes, uses measuring the grass seed out as an excuse to avert her eyes.

“So, if a recipe calls for fenugreek, and you haven't got it lying about—we're witches, why wouldn't we, but that's beside the point—you can substitute maple syrup to the same effect. At least that's what I've read.”

It’s Hecate's turn to roll her eyes. “Are you a cook now, Pippa Pentangle?”

“Heavens no,” Pippa laughs—a bright sound, an infectious one. “But it does do a girl good to step outside of her comfort zone from time to time.”

“If you say so,” Hecate murmurs, just loudly enough to be heard.

“Oh, Hiccup,” Pippa begins, and her voice is far too warm. “I know so.”

Their hands brush in the next moment, and Hecate leaps back at the sharp crackle of magic, at the tingling in her fingertips. She stares at Pippa in surprise, fist clenched, fingertips pressed into the heel of her hand, and Pippa gazes back, rubbing her own fingers and thumb together.

The room smells of copper and petrichor, and a hint of spun sugar.

Pippa smiles.

“What?” Hecate demands, rubbing the thumb of her opposing hand against her stinging fingers.

“You don’t feel that?”

“I can feel that you shocked me.”

Pippa cocks her head to the side, gives her a pointed look. “Your _magic_ , Hecate,” she insists. “You can’t feel it?”

Hecate scowls. She feels Pippa’s magic, nothing else. “No.”

Sighing in reply, Pippa reaches out her hand, but Hecate flinches away. Pippa favors her lip, dropping her hands to her sides.

“It happened while you were sleeping too,” she says, more quietly. “Just before you woke up.”

“You mentioned that.”

Pippa barrels on. “I didn’t feel anything then. Now I can definitely sense—”

“I don’t feel anything,” Hecate interrupts again, body growing tense, drawing up her walls. She doesn’t need Pippa’s wishful thinking, her glowing and perpetual optimism.

“Well, maybe that’s because it’s _yours,_ ” Pippa argues, obviously disinclined to give up her end of the argument. “You’re used to it, just like you’re used to the way the magic here feels, the way this lab smells.”

Hecate stares at Pippa for a long moment. Relents, closes her eyes, focuses on the air in the room, on the pocket of energy inside of her.

“The only magic I can feel is yours.”

“And I haven’t cast since I arrived,” Pippa says pointedly. Her eyes trail from Hecate’s face down to her hands, but she doesn’t try to reach for her. Instead, she sighs quietly and meets Hecate’s gaze again. “Maybe you don’t believe me, but… But I know your magic. I’d know it anywhere. And I can feel it now.”

Looking back at Pippa—really looking at her—Hecate decides again that she must believe her.

As if sensing that Hecate has given in for now, Pippa reaches out, squeezes her arm gently, and smiles.

“I’ve got your potion, by the way,” she says suddenly, and Hecate arches a brow at the change of tack. When the surprise wears off, she fights the urge not to sigh with relief. “It took a few tries, but I’m pretty confident I’ve got it right now.” Pippa doesn’t ask before casting this time, just gives her fingers a twist before a flask appears in her open palm. “If you just want to check the colour and smell…”

Hecate stares at the clear flask, at the pale blue of the liquid within. Remembers how to move her limbs a few moments later and takes it out of Pippa’s hand, carefully removing the top. She lifts it to her nose and sniffs, and the potion smells perfectly familiar.

“I can’t stay the night, as I’ve got another batch going, just in case,” Pippa is saying, gesturing nervously with her hands as Hecate seals a fingertip over the vial, dips it upside down, and presses the drop of potion to her lip to taste. “I’ll be checking it at precisely 6:07 in the morning; not sure why I timed it that way, but—”

Pippa cuts herself off just as Hecate feels her eyes well with tears.

“Hiccup?” Pippa asks, and her worry cuts through Hecate’s thoughts, makes her look up from the vial and at Pippa, makes her heave out a breath, lips twisting into what she means to be a smile but doesn’t quite make it there.

“It’s perfect,” she musters, embarrassed by the emotion clouding her voice.

Pippa takes the potion from her hands, and Hecate realises she is trembling. She watches Pippa recap the flask in a smooth motion, watches her set it carefully aside.

“It’s perfect,” Hecate repeats lamely, gazing blindly into the space between them as Pippa moves closer, taking Hecate’s hands gently into her own. “It’s—I’m—” She fumbles for words, unsure of what to say; finally settles on the simplest ones: “Thank you.”

“Oh, Hiccup. You’re welcome,” Pippa replies.

Pippa’s arms are around her then, settled carefully around her shoulders for a hug. Hecate breathes her in: the smell of her hair, her perfume, her magic. Without thought, she lets her own arms encircle Pippa’s body, clinging to her and nuzzling into her shoulder, resisting the urge to sob. “Thank you,” she mumbles again, and _thank you_ is not enough, but it is something.

“You’re welcome,” Pippa replies again, simply, lips beside her ear, warm breath sending a chill down Hecate’s spine. “You’re very welcome.”

* * *

They finish their tasks for the day and share a quiet supper in the potions lab just before the rest of the school settles into the main hall for their dinner. Pippa accompanies Hecate back up the stairs, offering her arm as additional support and pausing readily between flights. It’s slow and quiet going through the empty corridors, but she doesn’t mind; she’d walk a hundred flights of stairs for Hecate’s sake. She does consider offering to transfer them, but although it is the easy solution, it is probably not the best one, and Hecate seems to know and respect this too, because she does not ask.

“What are your evening plans?” Pippa asks just before they reach Hecate’s room.

“A bath,” Hecate replies immediately, unusually candid and forthcoming. “Taming this.” She gestures at her head with a slightly trembling hand, at the effective, but somewhat messy bun she has managed to affix to the back of her head. “I'm finding that to be very interesting after working with my hands all day. Some stretching before bed.”

Pippa smiles at her, gives her arm a light squeeze. “Well, I can certainly help with your hair,” she offers, knowing how much care Hecate has always taken with it, and understanding that its care is an obstacle at the moment, though Hecate has not asked for help outright.

Hecate hesitates, then nods, eyes on the floor. “I would… appreciate that. In fact, I… Well, I wouldn’t want you to leave too late, since you have such an early morning planned, on account of the potion, so… perhaps that could be arranged first, and it could be plaited out of the way.”

“Just a basic plait, like when we were girls,” Pippa supplies with a smile, which only broadens at Hecate’s relieved sigh.

“That… that would be acceptable,” Hecate replies. Then, casting her gaze sideways at Pippa, she swallows and tries again. “I would be grateful.”

It’s all awfully stilted, but Pippa would never dream of teasing her for it. She is warmed by Hecate’s openness, however awkward it may be, and grateful for the opportunity to be there for her in whatever way she is able.

And so, as soon as they arrive in Hecate’s private rooms, Pippa makes her way to Hecate’s sparse vanity. She settles in behind Hecate on the bed without trepidation, giving Morgana an absent-minded scratch behind the ear before beginning to unwind Hecate’s hair from the bun, removing pins as she goes.

It becomes very obvious, very quickly, that Hecate has been finding her hair difficult to manage. It’s clean, certainly, and mostly free of tangles; she is much too conscientious, after all, to let its care fall by the wayside. But Pippa is, to put it bluntly, horrified by the state of it. The ends are dry and damaged even after this short time, and she suspects the body is soon to follow. Evidently, Hecate's magic does indeed go a long way in nourishing her hair, in replacing any number of products Pippa might use to smooth and condition and promote body and shine.

“Oh, Hiccup,” Pippa mumbles, not really meaning to speak at all, but the words slip out anyway. There's no going back now, so: “Your ends…”

She can practically feel Hecate flushing, and regrets immediately that she spoke at all. “It's been difficult,” Hecate mutters, stumbling over the words, nervously rubbing her hands against her knees.

“No, I know, I do, and I didn't mean—” Pippa pauses, realises that fumbling apologies will get them nowhere. So she changes tack. “Well, I for one have never been able to keep mine healthy without using potions, and I bet you’re still just using shower spells and a brush on yours, aren’t you?”

“I—” Hecate stops, clearly uncertain of Pippa’s meaning, but the affirmative is obvious enough.

“Of course,” Pippa replies, letting a playful edge enter her voice. “Because you’ve always managed to have the most effortlessly flawless hair known to witching-kind.” Pippa pauses, runs her knuckles gently down Hecate’s arm to show she means no ill will. Then, sobering a little, Pippa gives Hecate’s arm just the slightest squeeze. “Look, I know it probably seems like a lot, all those products out there, especially… Especially now…” Hecate’s gaze flickers towards her, and Pippa offers an encouraging smile. “But I have an amazing potion that keeps my ends totally healthy—it’s a lifesaver, really. And it's so easy; you just spray it in at the ends and leave it. I bet if all you did besides washing your hair was to use this every morning, you wouldn’t have to worry about taming anything,” Pippa observes, hearkening back to their earlier conversation. “I'll send you a bottle tomorrow by flying post. You’ll love it.”

Hecate nods. She doesn't seem thrilled with the offer, exactly, but she isn't turning it down either, so Pippa considers that a small victory and reaches for the brush.

She pauses before she even begins, a thought occurring to her. “I could wash it for you,” she blurts out.

“I—Pippa, you don't… you don't have to—”

“It's not a matter of having to, Hiccup. I want to, if it will help. I could wash and condition it for you, and then if push comes to shove you won't have to worry about it for a couple of days, at least.”

Hecate is silent for a span. Pippa leans around for the barest glimpse of her face. Her lips are drawn; her hands fidget in her lap. And then: “I shouldn’t need…”

“Who's to say what you should or shouldn't need, Hecate?” Pippa asks. “You need what you need; there's no authority that can tell you otherwise, and if there were it certainly wouldn't be me.” Pippa sighs, deflates a little, tries to pick her next words with care as she slips off of the bed to kneel in front of Hecate. Hecate watches her in confusion; Pippa only gives her hands a light squeeze. “Maybe you've relied too much on magic for these tasks in the past, but that's not my place to say. You can't rely on it now, so you're going to need help—that's inevitable. And Hiccup, all you have to do is ask. I'm right here.”

Hecate stares at her dumbly. Pippa keeps holding on to Hecate's hands, expecting her to take a moment to process everything and choose a course of action, and hoping desperately that she will do… well, that she'll do whatever's best for herself.

“You and Ada are more alike than you know,” Hecate mumbles at length, tone difficult to read, but eyes betraying something akin to wonder.

“We're sensible witches,” Pippa quips, letting herself grin up at Hecate. “That's why we wear pink.”

Hecate groans.

Pippa's wants to say more—wants to tell her _that's why we value you_ , but the words are heavy in her mouth, and they do not even begin to brush the truth of the matter. So she only smiles, tries to convey in that look how important Hecate is to her, what a magnificent witch and person she is.

And Hecate almost, _almost_ cracks a smile in return.

“Okay.” Her cheeks are a bit dark, but she nods resolutely. “Okay. There are, um. There are bath salts in the cupboard. Would you mind drawing a bath?”

“Of course not,” Pippa replies, smile widening again as she stands. “You have it charmed to the right temperature?”

Hecate glances up, fingers fumbling with a button on her blouse. “Do you need to ask?”

Pippa arches a brow, gives Hecate a wink, and moves for the bathroom. She stoppers up the tub, starts the water running. Takes stock of her surroundings. Even in youth Hecate had favoured shower spells over an actual shower, citing that it saved precious study time, but the room is less sparse than Pippa might have imagined. She has shampoo and conditioner—the conditioner is the real surprise, since she never seemed to need it, but she supposes even Hecate must forego magic for the _act_ from time to time—a bar of soap, and an unmarked bottle of something fragrant with mint and eucalyptus, that could be soap or bubble bath, though Pippa strongly suspects the former. She finds the epsom salts in the cupboard, along with several vials of potions—labeled as meticulously as anything—and adds a generous heap of salts to the bath. Leaning over the tub, she swirls them gently in, watching the ripples skirting across the water.

She doesn't hear Hecate enter; is startled when Hecate appears beside her, a hand outstretched tentatively. She's obviously been debating whether or not to touch her, because she looks caught out when Pippa turns to look at her.

“Sorry. I was trying not to startle you.”

“It's alright.”

“That's enough.”

Pippa cuts the water off and stands, moving out of the way of the tub, but Hecate doesn't immediately act. She stands there instead, wrapped in a dressing gown, looking uncertain.

“Pippa, you… you don't have to—”

“Hecate, I told you, what I have to do is not part of this discussion,” Pippa replies calmly, giving Hecate what she hopes is a meaningful look. She lays a hand on Hecate's arm. “I'm here to help, that's all. If it's what you want.”

Hecate hesitates just a moment longer. And then, with a resolute nod, she steps towards the tub, drawing the dressing gown away from her body. In the next moment, the dressing gown is in Pippa’s hands, and she is gazing down the long line of Hecate’s spine with her pulse pounding in her ears because here, in this safe space, Hecate shows so little reservation. Witches have always viewed flesh as a natural thing, and the baring of it rather unremarkable; a witch’s body is a vessel, after all, and little more: made of stardust, imbued with her mother’s magic, destined to become dust again. But Hecate is by far the most private, the most reserved person Pippa knows, and her openness here and now makes Pippa ache with the desire to hold her close, to protect her, to tell her in no uncertain terms that, to Pippa, she is moon and stars and sun.

Pippa stares down at the dark material in her hands as Hecate settles, rubbing the fabric between thumb and forefinger. Hecate sighs, bringing Pippa back to her senses; she hangs the garment on its hook over the door before returning to perch on the edge of the tall tub, and can't quite keep the soft smile off her face as she watches Hecate's expression morph into one of contentment.

“Alright?” Pippa can't resist asking, letting her smile broaden a little when Hecate's eyes flicker open to glance up at her with a blush.

“Mm… The water's _perfect_ ,” Hecate says after the barest pause.

Pippa laughs, watches Hecate's eyes glimmer with the faintest hint of mischief. Wonders for the briefest moment what it would be like to kiss her, now, with laughter on her lips and that tiny curl of a smile on Hecate's. To translate the happiness she feels at Hecate's openness and mirth into a touch, a caress. 

She shuts down the thought suddenly, closing her eyes for a second, conscious of where that train might lead. She cannot allow herself to feel such things, not now. It isn't right.

So she steadies herself, opens her eyes again, and Hecate is watching her with something of a distant look. She doesn't inquire, just grabs the shower sprayer and gestures for Hecate to lean forward a bit.

She wets Hecate's hair carefully; pours a generous amount of shampoo into her hands and massages it into Hecate's scalp. When her hands reach the back of Hecate's head, she's careful, remembering the tender points Hecate showed her last week. She goes slowly, easing fingertips above the nape of her neck. Hecate's eyes are closed; her brows furrow slightly and Pippa withdraws a little.

“Is this alright?”

“Yes.”

“I'm not hurting you?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

They continue in silence for a while: Pippa rinses Hecate's hair and repeats the process before shifting to the end of the tub, letting Hecate's hair fall over the edge as she smoothes conditioner into the length of it and leaves it to rest.

“So you're feeling better, now that you've been on the potion again for a while?” she asks from her perch on the toilet, elbow propped on her knee, chin in her open palm.

“Yes,” Hecate replies simply. Pippa suspects more is coming, but she doesn't press, and Hecate falls silent again for a span. And then, somewhat unexpectedly, she begins to speak again. “I find myself capable of performing basic tasks, yet performing them…”

“Is difficult,” Pippa murmurs, filling in the blank with an understanding twist of her lips.

Hecate actually snorts in response, but she sobers very quickly. Swallows hard. “Other people do these things… so easily.”

“Many do, yes,” Pippa replies gently. Another moment of silence passes, and she frowns thoughtfully. “Hecate, when did this start for you?”

Hecate wets her lips, glancing over at Pippa with an uncertain expression. She looks uncomfortable.

“You don't have to say, Hiccup,” she almost whispers, but Hecate shakes her head slightly.

“It's alright. Fifth year. I started to have these aches, I—” She cuts herself off with a shrug.

Pippa frowns again. “I remember… I overheard you one day, complaining to Miss Swift that your knees hurt.” Hecate stiffens a little, but Pippa presses on. “That you couldn't jog. I thought it was so strange; you'd never complained before.”

“That was a private conversation,” Hecate says slowly, cautiously, but with a question buried deep in it.

“Yes, well,” Pippa murmurs. “I suppose it took me a long time to let go of the suspicion that something was wrong. That… that maybe there was something I could fix, something that could make us friends again.” It’s the first time she’s confessed anything like this, but she supposes she owes it to Hecate now, after Hecate has been so open, so vulnerable with her. “I am sorry for eavesdropping though.”

They're silent for a moment, then another thought occurs to her. “Do you know what else I remember?” she asks suddenly, frowning thoughtfully, remembering all the pieces that never quite fit. “You stopped writing almost entirely. You had a quill charmed to do it all for you. Miss Tuinstra _hated_ it. I remember thinking, ‘ _surely Hecate isn’t_ that _much of a show-off—she’d never, I know her._ ’ But then, I realised, I really didn’t.” She watches Hecate carefully for a moment after that, then shrugs. “Didn’t stop me wondering.”

Hecate frowns and turns away to gaze down into her hands. For a long moment, she looks like she wants to say something, but doesn’t. When she finally does speak, it’s almost too quietly for Pippa to hear. “You’ve always been too good to me. Better than I deserve.”

Pippa feels her heart lurch at the pronouncement. “Oh, Hiccup, no.” She doesn’t know what to do, what else to say.

As if sensing Pippa’s inner turmoil, Hecate continues quietly on with the previous topic as though the diversion never happened. “Miss Arzt gave me potions—strong ones, for a while, until she stopped believing that I could be hurting so badly all the time. My father didn’t believe me at all, of course. Not until I woke up screaming and stopped eating for two days. Great Aunt Honora was naturally certain I’d been cursed and may well go to her death wondering why she was never able to trace the source of it.” Her voice momentarily takes on that starkly humourous lilt for just a moment before sobering again. “Father sent me back to school with a potion to keep the spasms at bay during our last term. It did help, but…” Hecate trails off helplessly with a flick of her fingers. “In college, I started trying different remedies and altering potions to suit my needs, and… over the years it became a project. The potion you brewed is the result.”

Pippa watches Hecate for a few moments, considering this. She can't imagine having to do all that alone; imagines Hecate steadfastly testing each potion on herself over a period of days or weeks, then starting again with something new. Imagines her doing this for twenty-something years, until finally, _finally_ finding something that works.

Her heart _aches_.

She moves silently to the end of the tub again, and Hecate leans forward without prompting, allowing her to rinse her hair a final time. Pippa runs her fingers carefully through it, gently working tangles free and ensuring all of the conditioner is washed away.

“Sometimes it isn't enough, is it?” she asks at length, remembering the second potion, the small collection of them in the cupboard.

“Sometimes,” Hecate agrees. But she falls silent after that, so Pippa doesn't pry. She just wrings the excess water out of Hecate's hair.

Hecate moves to unstopper the bath when she finishes.

“You don't have to get out on my account, Hecate. I have time.”

“It's fine,” Hecate says, steadying herself carefully, then righting herself in the tub.

So Pippa snags a towel, circling around again to offer it to Hecate, who sways as she reaches her side. She reaches out instinctively, grasping at Hecate's arms behind her elbows, and Hecate mirrors the movement, nails biting into Pippa's skin.

“Sorry,” she mutters breathlessly.

Pippa only shakes her head, backing up to make room for Hecate to step out of the tub. “That's alright. Do you want a drying spell?”

It feels so strange a thing to ask, and she wonders if she is overstepping her boundaries, but her fears are alleviated when Hecate nods slightly in response. So, once Hecate's feet are firmly in the ground, she frees a hand to cast the spell. Then, returning the towel to its hook, she retrieves Hecate's dressing gown instead and holds it for her as Hecate shrugs into it.

“Thank you, Pipsqueak,” Hecate says as she turns to face her, slowly, as if weighing the words even while she speaks them.

It's the first time she's called Pippa Pipsqueak since last year's Spelling Bee. Pippa’s dangerously close to becoming weepy, so she places a hand gently on each of Hecate's shoulders and cranes her neck up to press a soft kiss to Hecate's cheek.

“Let's sort your hair, shall we?”


	4. pain comes and you find a way to build your world around it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hecate finds her new normal; Ada, Mildred, and Pippa come along for the ride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You've done it! You've reached the penultimate chapter! Yay you!
> 
>  **CW** for some self-sabotaging Hecate (her support structure is there to pick her up though). Some very (very) brief non-explicit sexual fantasizing in this one, pals. Otherwise, same old same old.

Midweek, Hecate’s mirror chimes. She answers the call and is greeted by Pippa’s smile. Pippa inquires after her wellbeing, and reports that the last batch of Hecate’s potion came out just as well as the first. On Saturday, she calls again; asks after her again with the same warmth in her eyes and apologises that she won’t be able to visit this weekend.

“Perhaps that’s presumptuous of me,” she says self-deprecatingly after the apology, flapping a hand awkwardly. “Assuming that I—”

“No,” Hecate interrupts, unable to bear the thought of Pippa belittling herself in any way, or of Pippa thinking Hecate wouldn’t want her here. “No, I… I’m grateful,” she says, for lack of better words for her feelings. Anything more is too much, too dangerous; she has already bared so much to the other witch; she’s afraid if she keeps opening herself up, there will be nothing left—nothing but the raw ache, the gaping want.

Because she loves Pippa. Because, for the past week, she has slept with the phantom of Pippa’s fingers gentle against her scalp and, on one terrifying occasion, with the slither of water droplets that became Pippa’s hands ghosting across her shoulders, her breasts, her ribs.

But she isn’t willing to let Pippa go again, not for anything. Because Pippa’s magic, nestled inside of her, reminds her throughout the day that, after all this time, Pippa somehow feels like home. Because she feels safe beneath the weight of Pippa’s touch, comfortable in the curl of her smile.

The following Wednesday, Hecate magicks her hair into a bun unintentionally, and doesn't actually register that she’s done it until she goes to twist it up and out of the way by hand a few minutes later.

She stares down at her empty hands for several seconds when she does realise it, pausing her routine to take stock of her body and how she feels. No different than she did five, ten, twenty minutes ago, she realises. Stiff and not terribly well-rested, but not exhausted the way she was last time she unintentionally used Pippa’s magic. And she can still feel a comfortable curl of that inside of her, nestled, as always, between her ribs. No, she has used her own magic, or mostly so, and she really feels none the worse for wear after that small spell.

Closing her eyes, Hecate focuses on her powers, willing her magic to the surface. After what feels like an eternity, her fingers start to tingle; she curls them into loose fists and lets the magic rest there, in the palms of her hands, bold and warm with just a touch of Pippa's lightness ghosting at its edges; she cannot wholly separate her magic from Pippa's, but the bulk of it is her own.

It’s the first time she’s actively _felt_ her magic since the incident with the Stone, and she honestly thinks she might cry.

She meets with Ada, as she frequently does while classes are in session and Ada isn't covering one of her potions lessons, informs her of the change, insisting that she is ready to begin teaching again. She can brew potions herself now, after all; and after that morning’s brush with her magic she strongly suspects that there is more than enough in her to deal with any minor crisis her students, Mildred Hubble included, can come up with. She won't be using it for simple tasks, of course, and it will be difficult, but it's been just a few days shy of a month; she's going to go mad if she cannot be back in her classroom.

They agree that she will start again Monday for a trial period, taking over the fourth and fifth years’ classes again—she is, after all, best equipped to handle the upper level classes, and Ada worries that throwing her back into the fray for full days of lessons is simply too much—and that she will let Ada know immediately if the task is too much, if she feels too drained. It is a compromise, but even Hecate cannot argue against the wisdom of it; indeed, she finds herself grateful for Ada’s concern.

Hecate only just resists the urge to mirror Pippa to tell her; she doesn't know why she wants so badly for Pippa to know, to share this with her (no, no, she does, but admitting why is far too dangerous—better to convince herself that it's a mystery), but she does. So she waits for Saturday, for Pippa's arrival, and when Pippa knocks on Hecate's door a bit earlier than expected, Hecate greets her with a shy smile.

“You said you can feel my magic,” she says softly, holding out a tentative hand.

“I’d know it anywhere,” Pippa says, her eyes dark with something Hecate cannot fathom.

When she places her hand in Hecate's this time, there is no shock of magic between them, but there's definitely… something. Pippa gasps in surprise, free hand grasping blindly for Hecate's (Hecate twines their fingers willingly), and then the gasp is a grin of delight and her lips are on Hecate's cheek. The familiar feel of Pippa's magic slips into and through her, and for the first time Hecate feels something of her own slip out, her own magic tingling between their palms as if drawn to Pippa by some unspeakable force. Strangely, she feels no loss on account of it; there’s a foreignness to the sensation, but it as an equal exchange, energy for energy, and Pippa’s magic is just as at home inside of her as ever.

Hecate feels as if every inch of her being aligns with Pippa's.

“What did I tell you?” laughs Pippa, with gleaming eyes and a voice like pealing bells.

Hecate cannot help but smile back, lost somewhere in the depths of Pippa's brown eyes. 

Hecate has finally finished her inventory of the potion supplies, so they find other ways to pass the day. It’s odd, spending so much time in Pippa’s company; despite the tenuous renewal of their friendship after the Spelling Bee, they have not had the time, or opportunity, or perhaps the will, to pass time like this. To meet for tea, for a few games of chess. Doing so now is satisfying in a way Hecate could not have guessed; she enjoys it, regrets not making herself available for this sooner, and disavows the notion that she may regret any of it later.

Pippa was always the better chess player—always better at looking ahead, at planning and revising her strategy, whereas Hecate has always been more direct—and bests Hecate at two games while they nibble at digestives and finish a pot of tea. A little before lunch time, Hecate is forced to stand and move about, back rebelling against the movement after sitting in place for so long, and Pippa tentatively offers a massage.

Hecate is not as sore as she was a few weeks ago—far from it—and Pippa gains confidence as she kneads at Hecate’s stiff muscles, deftly finding trigger points with her thumbs and working at them carefully.

They dine with the rest of the school for lunch, and Pippa is graciously dismissive of any students who seem _too_ interested in her or her reasons for being here. Hecate has never noticed this before, but is grateful for it now.

Hecate feels long past-due for a stretching session by the time she is back in her room, Pippa’s massage having only gone so far to alleviate muscles stiff from sitting still for so long. Hecate somewhat begrudgingly settles into her stretching regimen while Pippa is still there, unsure of just how much of her day to day life she wants to share with the other woman when she has already shared so much. But Pippa, having planned to stay the night again, only changes out of her dress and into something more appropriate and joins Hecate on the floor, moving easily, wordlessly, through a series of yoga poses while Hecate stretches.

Hecate does her level best not to be distracted by the curve of Pippa’s hips and thighs in fitted leggings. By the swath of slightly tanned skin when her camisole rides up. By the smattering of freckles across her shoulders and chest and back.

Her level best is not quite good enough.

“Have you tried yoga?” Pippa asks when she catches Hecate’s gaze after a bit.

Hecate shakes her head, focuses on her own body, tries not to look at Pippa. “I hate it.”

“Really? Oh, Hiccup, it’s mostly just mindfulness—”

“I’m mindful.”

“—and deep breathing.”

“I breathe very well on my own.”

Pippa rolls her eyes. “It could benefit you, you know.”

“No thank you.”

Pippa comes up to her knees suddenly, hands rested on her thighs as she peers at Hecate. And then, with a challenging smirk, she says: “One pose.”

“I’ve tried more than one,” Hecate grumbles, eyes settling a moment too long on Pippa’s collarbones, and the notch between them.

“Cat-cow.”

Hecate groans. “I hate that one.”

“Yes, but you hate them all.”

“That’s not untrue.”

“Did it hurt you?”

The temptation to lie is great, but Hecate only shrugs. “No.”

“Then you must have been doing it wrong.” Hecate arches a brow, and Pippa seems to rethink the statement, offers a self-deprecating little chuckle. “Not that it’s supposed to hurt. It’s just… It’s a good pose.” She pauses for just a moment, and Hecate pretends not to see the expectant look. “Well, go on. On your knees; show me!”

Realising that she isn’t going to walk away from this one easily, Hecate hesitates for only a moment before sighing and moving obediently onto her hands and knees.

“You need to start in the right position,” Pippa says, hand landing on Hecate’s back and making her stiffen with surprise. Concern lights in Pippa’s voice when she asks, “did I hurt you?”

Again, Hecate hesitates for a moment. “No.”

“Okay then. Bring your hands”—Hecate moves obediently when Pippa’s fingers brush her wrist—“ _good_. And you have to engage your whole body, just like any other exercise, so _press_.” Her hands dance across Hecate’s shoulders, and again Hecate obeys, pressing up and back, aligning her spine with her shoulders pressed away from her neck and ears.

“There,” Pippa says. “Better already. Can you feel the difference?”

Hecate makes a non-committal noise.

There’s the barest edge of good-natured annoyance in Pippa’s voice when she says, “Fine. Show me the pose.”

Hecate really does hate this pose, and she’s certain it shows—more certain when Pippa tuts in response, her hand lighting on Hecate’s back once more.

“You see, Hiccup, you’re doing it all wrong,” she says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re getting to the end poses, but it’s not just about the final poses; it’s about the _journey_.”

It’s all Hecate can do to keep from rolling her eyes.

“Here,” Pippa says, unfazed, bringing her hand up towards Hecate's neck. “You're not just arching; you're engaging. So do it, but slowly. Just—just follow my hand.”

Hecate isn't sure what that's supposed to mean, but she does her best. Arches slowly, engaging each vertebra as she does, barely managing not to shiver as Pippa's palm makes its way down her spine.

“There,” Pippa's saying, one hand rested at the base of her spine, fingers of the other brushing the top of Hecate's sternum. “Chest open, you see? And then the other way, slowly. Hips first.”

Clenching her eyes shut, Hecate focuses on the curl of her back as she rolls up into a hollow position at Pippa's behest, following the long, slow movement of her hand until her chin is tucked in and she can feel the stretch of her spine.

“Better,” Pippa murmurs.

Hecate let's out a shuddering breath.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes.”

“Try again? Breathe with it this time. In…” (Hecate keeps moving, keeps focusing on the movement of her body.) “...Out. How does that feel?”

Hecate leans back into her haunches, glancing up at Pippa, who must not realise that her hand still rests on the small of Hecate's back.

“I can see the benefit—”

“See? I told you—”

“—but I still hate it,” she finishes, because she doesn't actually know how she feels about the exercise itself, and because banter is… well, it's easy. Strangely, comfortably easy.

Pippa rolls her eyes; Hecate manages a challenging stare before Pippa raises her hands in surrender, relenting. “Fine. But I think you might find you like it if you tried.”

“Unlikely,” Hecate replies flatly.

“Well now you're just being difficult.”

“Perhaps.”

A bit later, while Pippa meets with Ada, Hecate takes a shower; Pippa returns with supper from the kitchens, and after they've eaten together in the privacy of Hecate's rooms Pippa helps Hecate with her hair. Curls up beside her a while later with fingers tracing delicate patterns up and down Hecate's spine, trails of magic following her hand. Hecate does her best not to shiver, sighs at the feeling of warmth sinking into her skin. She wakes again to the weight of Pippa's hand on her back, lies still as Pippa’s fingers curl and uncurl against her back while she dreams in the early light of dawn.

* * *

Hecate arrives early to lay out ingredients for her fourth formers on Monday, and is surprised and annoyed at how long it takes. 

More surprising—and more troubling—is how much more the mere act of sitting or standing erect throughout the class _hurts_. She finds herself even more rigid than usual, shoulders impossibly tense, body aching for a hot bath well before the double class is over.

She tells herself that this is part of the process, that it's been a month since she led a class, and that of course it's going to take some getting used to again. She stretches, long and slow, returns to careful exercises that have always helped with the back pain, and only just makes it through the first week.

Pippa finds Hecate at her desk with head in hands, neck-deep in marking and making little progress when she visits again on Saturday afternoon. Hand cramping from the effort of writing—how has she taken such a simple task for granted for so long?—she resorted to magic for a while, but such uneconomical use of magic makes her apprehensive. Halfway through the stack she had begun to feel the physical ramifications, proving that her misgiving was not unfounded.

“Come on,” Pippa says, without any other form of greeting, a hand extended to Hecate. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing. I just have to finish this,” Hecate mutters, shaking off the malaise to the best of her ability and picking up her quill. The mere act of gripping it gives her pause, however; she sighs, glancing furtively up at Pippa.

The woman knows most of her secrets. What’s one more?

“Writing,” she grumbles, as if the very idea of it is an insult, unable to curb her annoyance.

Pippa seems to take her meaning. She steps closer, and Hecate isn’t quite sure what to do with the small smile she offers. “Let me help, then. But first we need more comfortable seats.”

“Pippa…”

“Come on,” Pippa repeats before Hecate can quite gather her thoughts to argue. “Just tell me what to write, and I’ll write it.”

Hecate arches a brow at this, uncertain. Their methods are… well, they’re _different_ to say the least. Even without ever having graded with Pippa, or witnessed Pippa’s teaching methods, she knows their opinions on this sort of thing are different at best. But grading does require impartiality at its core, so she sighs and places a hand in Pippa’s, letting the other witch help her to her feet.

“Verbatim,” she asserts, giving Pippa a meaningful look.

“Verbatim,” Pippa agrees with a solemn nod.

They settle onto the sofa, Pippa with a large tome in her lap to bear down on, and it goes well enough, for the most part. Pippa manages not to make too many retorts to Hecate’s sometimes acerbic commentary, and Hecate does her best not to be bothered by the looping, extravagant handwriting so different from her own spindly longhand.

At first, Hecate just tells Pippa what to write, but soon it’s apparent that the task is much easier if Pippa reads the students’ answers aloud and allows Hecate to respond that way. Hecate makes no complaints over the arrangement: Pippa’s voice is a comfortable thing, after all. She seeks the same comfort for her body, after a while, moving from her rigid position on the edge of the sofa to one with her feet curled beneath her, facing sideways, propped against a pillow.

“Oh, Hecate!” Pippa blurts suddenly. 

They’re so, _so_ close to being done. Hecate narrows her eyes. “What?”

“Is that really necessary?”

“ _Verbatim_ ,” Hecate complains. “You said verbatim.”

“I did, I did,” Pippa concedes with a nod and a breathy sigh. “But, do you have to be so...”

“What?” Pippa frowns; Hecate glares. “So what, Pippa?” Pippa seems to be struggling with what to say, so Hecate waves pointedly at the stack of papers, making a disapproving noise as she does so. “It’s bad enough that you dot your i’s and exclamation points with little hearts, Pippa; I need them to take me seriously.”

Pippa scoffs at that. “My students take me quite seriously, Hecate.”

“Do they really?” Hecate demands, a bit more scathingly than she intends. “The Craft demands focus, labour, _respect_ —”

“Are you suggesting that my students don’t have that?”

At the flare of anger in Pippa’s voice, Hecate stiffens, staring past her. She doesn’t know what to say—torn between not wanting to put her foot in her mouth and having just enough pride not to back down.

She has made her bed, and she’s going to lie in it.

“I have exceptional students, Hecate, and they take me precisely as seriously as they need to,” Pippa says after a span, tone suggesting a conclusion to the argument, eyes fixed pointedly on the marking in her lap. “And I’ll stop dotting my i’s and exclamation points with hearts if you’ll soften that last comment.”

Hecate swallows and sits in silence for a long moment, looks up only when Pippa sighs again, heavily.

“Fine, don't speak to me,” Pippa says, pushing the papers aside to stand. “I have to go, I can’t stay tonight. There are just three more left; I’m sure you can make it through those on your own.”

Hecate bristles at the tone. She hadn’t meant her silence as a dismissal, her words as the start of a fight. Now, caught out and uncertain, she only glances balefully up at Pippa. Her stormy mood is unwelcome, but it is here, and frankly it is more comfortable than most things.

So she keeps her silence, offers neither rebuttle nor petty retort, and looks pointedly away as Pippa makes for the door.

It doesn’t take long to remember how much Hecate hates fighting with Pippa. She piles the finished marking neatly on the corner of her desk and makes her way down to dinner, massaging her hand the whole way, stormy mood lingering as she numbly eats a portion of the food on her plate. 

Ada, wisely, gives Hecate her space, though they sit side by side, including her in a conversation with Dimity without forcing her into it, and even Dimity recognises, after a quip or two, that Hecate is not in the mood.

If Ada keeps an unusually watchful eye on her, Hecate pretends not to notice.

When she gets back to her rooms, she forgoes her entire evening ritual in favor of curling into bed, stiff and aching from sitting so long in one position during the day but uncaring. If she hurts more tomorrow, she probably deserves it, after all.

Before long, however, there’s a light knock on the door, which she pointedly ignores. The knock comes again, a little louder, and then there’s the sound of the door opening.

“Hecate?”

Ada.

The door clicks shut and Ada steps quietly into the room, flats silent on the large area rug, only the swish of her skirts indicating that she’s near the bed.

“Hecate, you and I both know you’ll regret going to bed like this,” Ada reasons, lowering herself to the bed behind Hecate, but not touching her.

“I don’t care.”

Ada sniffs. “You do. You’ll be miserable tomorrow, possibly even the next day. And you and I both know that you don’t need to be in the classroom like that. You’ll push yourself much too hard, and you’ll be right back where you started. I can't let you do that to yourself, Hecate. So. I'm going to start a bath for you.”

Hecate feels a rush of disgust with herself, can't stand that she's inadvertently dragged Ada back into taking care of her, hates that she needs anything from her at all. Lies there grappling with herself while Ada's weight shifts off the bed, as the bath starts in the next room.

She pushes herself upright with a groan, rubbing at the back of her neck, and a moment later Ada is beside her, hands folded in her lap.

“Are you alright, my dear?” she asks gently.

“Fine,” Hecate mutters automatically.

Ada sighs softly beside her, a hand landing gently on Hecate's thigh. She pats her knee twice gently before withdrawing again. “Alright. You don't have to speak to me, Hecate; if you need time to yourself, that's fine. But do remember that I'm here if you need anything.”

Hecate glances up at her. Manages to smile. Only a little, and uncertain, but Ada deserves more than that—far more, more than Hecate could ever begin to give her.

Ada smiles back, as if she understands, and when she pushes herself to her feet she offers her hands to Hecate for support.

Despite herself, Hecate accepts the aid. Watches Ada circle around the bed to leave before making her way to the bathroom and the promise of a warm bath full of salts to ease the stiffness from her body.

* * *

Pippa never makes it back to Pentangle’s.

She had made it almost, _almost_ halfway home, but instead found her way back to the Cackle’s grounds and up to Miss Cackle’s office, near tears for reasons she can’t quite explain to herself or her fellow Headmistress.

Ada knows Hecate best—is the only one who really knows what and who the Hecate Pippa had known as a girl has become. Pippa has been learning, but she trusts Ada’s instincts, her judgment.

So she had flopped helplessly into the seat across from Ada’s and promptly begun to cry. She doesn’t like thinking about that; it was just a silly quarrel, really, but… but how could she stomp out of the room angry like that? Leaving Hecate like that had been petty, and she’d lied too—she doesn’t have anything pressing to do tomorrow, could have stayed. Could still stay. And all because Hecate hadn't responded to her, hadn't answered, hadn't deigned to argue, or apologise, or anything at all.

But the truth is, while Pippa may prefer to confront things head on, Hecate never did. It was a ridiculous expectation—not expecting her to respond, that's fair, she thinks, but expecting her to respond immediately while Pippa verbally bristled… She knows Hecate better than that. Knows that she isn’t one for confrontation if she doesn’t deem it necessary. Knows she is slow to speak, needs time to gather her thoughts. Knows how heartbreakingly little Hecate values herself.

Had it not been so close to supper time, Pippa would have more seriously considered going straight to Hecate. Really, she would have. But she couldn’t very well just pop into the dining hall for supper and confront her in front of all of her students and fellow staff, and even showing up when Hecate thought she had left didn’t seem like a good idea.

So she had begged Ada to see how Hecate was, to ascertain her mood. Ada had conceded, and left for supper as Pippa curled into an armchair by the fire to wait.

And after returning from supper and from checking on Hecate afterwards, after reporting Hecate’s state of mind to a fretting Pippa, Ada—being an intelligent and reasonable woman—had suggested that Pippa wait awhile, give Hecate some time before going to see her. Maybe wait ‘til tomorrow. Maybe mirror her after going back to Pentangle’s.

And Pippa, being somewhat less reasonable and notably more hasty, had all but ignored the recommendation.

Perhaps Ada’s right, but they’ll just have to see. But Pippa knows Hecate well enough to strongly suspect that mirroring won’t work at all; if Hecate is as good at giving the cold shoulder as she was in school, she’ll only ignore the calls. And frankly, Pippa doesn’t believe that a distant, hands-off sort of affection is enough. She doesn’t doubt Ada’s affections for Hecate, not at all, and she knows her actions were meant to show care without seeming overbearing, but… well, Pippa will risk making Hecate’s teeth itch and see where it goes. She’s been doing that for weeks already; Hecate will either reject her, or she won’t, and there’s only one way to find out which.

So she knocks softly at Hecate’s door, and slips quietly into the room to find it empty when she receives no answer. The light is on in the bathroom, the door ajar. So she knocks again, this time on the doorframe into the bathroom, and waits.

“Hiccup?” she asks after a moment, pushing the door open a bit more. “Can I come in?” A beat. “You know,” she adds, sticking her head into the room, “you’ll have to answer me eventually…”

Hecate glances up at her, massaging her hand with the thumb of the other. “I thought you left,” she says quietly, lowering her gaze again.

Pippa takes this as an invitation and slips into the room, pushing the door to behind her. “I did,” she says softly. “I came back.”

Hecate frowns sightly, air thickening in the wake of Pippa words. She doesn’t say anything . 

“Actually, I landed a while ago—I’ve been with Miss Cackle, _Ada_. Trying to work things out, really. She’d probably tell you I was sulking, if you asked—I was, probably—but… well.”

“You?” Hecate asks, tone dry. “Sulk?”

“Maybe brooding is a better word.”

“That’s worse.”

Pippa rolls her eyes, plopping down onto the toilet seat. “Well, I don’t like it when we fight.”

Hecate snorts softly, sinking the tiniest bit further down into the water. “We’ve always fought, Pippa,” she replies flatly.

“We’ve also always made up,” Pippa replies pointedly. Then, sighing, she fidgets with the ring on her finger, dropping her face to gaze into her hands. “We always did in school, anyway. Then we didn’t speak to each other for thirty years, and when I thought we were going to make up, we didn’t, really, and…” Pippa sighs, trailing off to glance tentatively up at Hecate, trying to gauge her mood.

Hecate stares down at the bathwater.

Taking a careful breath, Pippa continues to watch Hecate in profile. “I never hated you, you know,” she almost whispers. “Not really. Not even when I most wanted to. Resented you, maybe. Hated what you’d done, but… Well.” She twists her fingers together, swallows. “I suppose I always loved you too much for that. Couldn’t let go of my best friend even when she wasn’t my best friend anymore.”

Immediately after she says it, she wants to take it back. Not because of Hecate’s reaction—no, a careful glance proves Hecate is still gazing blindly downward into her own hands—but because it feels so insincere. She does love Hecate, always did, loves her the same now as she did when they were girls, but understands it better now. Understands that it was never just friendship, that Hecate was never only her best friend.

“I do still love you,” she says softly, nearly a whisper, hoping that it is enough, that it isn’t too much, letting Hecate take what meaning from it she will.

Pippa watches her carefully now, as her lips part and she stiffens suddenly. For just a moment, she thinks maybe it _was_ too much—that it was unwelcome, that she’s overstepped her bounds, that Hecate has seen her for what she is and wants nothing more to do with her, with their relationship, with any of it. Her heart thunders in her ears and she begins to turn away.

Then Hecate turns her face, glances up at her, and offers up the most tremulous of smiles. A delicate, tiny curl of her lips, just the one side of her mouth, followed by a thoughtful, somber look.

“I…”

She stops, drawing her lips into a tight line as a just-visible flush creeps up her neck and cheeks. Her eyes drift down to gaze into the water, and Pippa watches for a moment before averting her own gaze. The last thing she wants is to appear antagonistic or expectant in any way. How Hecate feels about her doesn’t matter, so long as she is comfortable with Pippa being here, now. She’s never told Pippa she loved her, never returned a kiss, barely ever initiated contact of any sort; Pippa really doesn’t expect her to start now. All she can really hope for is that Hecate won’t push her away.

“I’m sorry for earlier,” Pippa says to break the silence, and because it needs to be said. “I’m not even sure it counted as a fight. You didn’t exactly get a word in edgeways, did you?”

Hecate snorts softly, shakes her head just a little. “No. No, I didn’t.”

Another span of silence passes between them, uncomfortable and heavy, as Hecate flexes her fingers, gaze unfocused.

She glances up again at last, clearing her throat, lips struggling between a frown and a smile. Manages to ask: “Help me out?”

Pippa smiles reassuringly back, standing and reaching out a hand. “Of course.”

* * *

Two weeks after she begins teaching again, Hecate takes on the third year potions classes in addition to the fourth and fifth formers. The adjustment is no worse than the first—results in more cramping fingers and more careful sessions of stretching and strength training, but her body is stronger again, better.

She tires still, _aches_ still, wearies too easily without the full use of her magic. Indeed the magic seems to slip away from her faster when she does use it. But, slowly, she finds a new version of normal.

A normal that includes Pippa Pentangle, against all odds. She doesn't understand Pippa's dedication, her visits most weekends. Doesn't know why or how, after all these years, it should be that Pippa still cares so much.

And yet, she is here, situated comfortably in Hecate's life. Here, sharing her magic and her person; here with warm hands and gentle touches that make Hecate shiver if ever she thinks of them after the fact.

Here, with a piece of herself—bright and warm and glowing—nestled sweetly between Hecate's ribs.

A perfect reason not to expend too much magic, as far as Hecate is concerned. Her spells favour her own power, naturally—it is what she was born with, the tool fit perfectly to her own hand—but with each spell cast, a tiny bit of Pippa's magic slips out too, and when it is gone, Hecate feels strangely empty.

And Hecate burns through magic at an alarming rate, no matter who’s she casts with. She is tired of it, frankly, and frustrated that she has to slip into her own lab between classes to set up for the next.

In the days before the Solstice and Yule celebrations, the school clamours with students hanging decorations: evergreen wreaths and fresh herbs and white garlands throughout the corridors and main halls and on doors. Hecate keeps away from it, does not have the energy reserves to be involved more than she must be. Besides, classes must continue; the Solstice is on Saturday, so regular courses will not be interrupted for the celebration.

She is in the lab, setting up for her next class, when heavy footsteps come clattering down the corridor. She rolls her eyes, raises her hand in front of her—

And she remembers she does not have the power to transfer into the hallway to startle the rule-breaker with a sharp word.

In the end, this doesn't matter, because Mildred Hubble careens around the corner and nearly collides with her.

“ _Mildred_ Hubble!”

Hecate isn't sure who is more startled. She does manage not to leap out of her skin when Mildred skids to a halt, but only just, and Mildred’s eyes are wide as dinner plates.

“Oh! Hi, Miss Hardbroom. I just forgot my notebook!” she fairly squeaks, bouncing on her toes and glancing toward her usual seat. “Yule decorations and everything!” she adds by way of explanation.

Hecate hasn’t interacted much with Mildred over the past few weeks—has mostly only seen her at meals, but the girl’s penchant for tardiness and absent-mindedness are hard to forget. Again, Hecate barely resists rolling her eyes. Mildred stands there bouncing, and Hecate realises she's waiting for something, anything, a dismissal perhaps. So she sighs, waving her hand absently towards the students’ seats. “Go, Mildred.”

Mildred skitters obediently off, snatches a notebook off of the long table, and hops back down the steps again before coming to another halt, gazing quizzically at her in a way that makes Hecate's teeth itch.

“Yes?”

Mildred starts at that, clinging to her notebook like a lifeline. “Well, Miss Hardbroom… it's just… It's just class doesn't start for another twenty minutes and—”

“Your point, Mildred?”

“I just wondered why… or what, I suppose…”

“I am preparing for class, as you should be.”

“Right but don't you…” Mildred trails off suddenly, looking thoughtful.

Hecate bristles, doesn't like feeling like she's under a thirteen-year-old’s scrutiny. “Mildred Hu—”

“Oh.”

Hecate bites her tongue, for she likes even less being cut off when she's speaking. But Mildred glances down at the floor, and Hecate scowls at the top of her head for a moment before Mildred begins speaking again, this time to her feet.

“I'm sorry, Miss Hardbroom,” she mutters. “I thought. Well, I mean. You always just pop in, and _poof!_ ” She spreads a hand in front of her as if casting a spell, finally looking up again, but not meeting Hecate's eye. “Ingredients! And, well, I mean I know you can't just pop in right now—”

“What gave you that impression?”

“I… well, Cackle's isn't Cackle's without you transferring around scaring students whenever they’re getting into mischief, right? It's sort of chaotic without that. I mean, it’s sort of chaotic anyway, but lots more when you’re not doing that. I didn't think you'd stop doing what you've always done unless you… well, unless you couldn't. So. Um. Sorry, if that's…”

Honestly, Mildred's _perceptiveness_ knows no bounds, Hecate thinks, not for the first time since she's known her. She's excellent at problems dealing with _people_. If only her academic prowess were as remarkable. And perhaps if her perception were directed at someone other than Hecate…

She purses her lips, staring at Mildred for a long moment. Mildred glances up, shrinking under Hecate’s gaze, but doesn’t look away this time.

“I could help,” she says timidly, fidgeting. “You could tell me what to get! And I’d—”

“That won’t be necessary,” Hecate replies sharply.

Momentarily cowed, Mildred bites her lip. “I won’t tell anybody,” she mumbles with a shrug. “Not even Maud and Enid.”

Hecate arches a brow, but instead of backing off, Mildred brightens.

“I’ve only had two detentions since Halloween,” she says, rather less like she’s proud of herself for avoiding punishment than as if it’s inspired some idea. Indeed, she follows it with: “I’m sure you would have given me a few more.” Hecate’s eyebrows fly upwards, threatening to disappear past her hairline. Mildred doesn’t give her time to wonder, just keeps prattling on. “You always make me brew potions or do revisions during detentions, so just think of it as… umm… makeup detentions!?”

Honestly, the girl is far too cheerful for someone recommending theoretical punishments for herself.

“Undoubtedly Miss Drill and Miss Cackle have been remarkably soft on you,” Hecate observes dryly. “But at this moment, you are wasting my precious time.”

“Well, all the more reason for me to help,” Mildred contends—cheerful, but cautious now too, Hecate thinks.

It occurs to her that, not only would it be a bit easier on Hecate to allow Mildred to help, the arrangement would give Mildred one-on-one experience with each ingredient. Everything is painstakingly labeled in the lab, of course, but visual recognition of ingredients—whether plants in nature or other bits in the lab—is vital for a witch, after all. It’s a thoughtful gesture—one she is loathe to accept, particularly from a student, but there is a certain practicality to the whole notion.

And she does not think that any embarrassment will come from the arrangement, not really. She has a stack of eight hand-crafted ‘get well’ cards with little sketches and watercolours of the grounds at Cackle’s, of cats and toads and bonfires and potions ingredients, bundled tightly in a drawer, after all. Because Mildred Hubble may be terribly annoying, may test Hecate’s patience almost every day of the week in some way—may even insist on finding increasingly new and more absurd ways of doing so—but she is a kind and thoughtful child.

Hecate hesitates for just a moment, sizing Mildred up, and then sighs.

“ _Fine_ ,” she says, ignoring Mildred’s broadening grin. “You will visually verify each ingredient before bringing it to the table, according to its label and its physical appearance and, where appropriate, odor.” Again, Hecate ignores as Mildred wrinkles her nose slightly. “And you will not use aiding _me_ as an excuse to be late to Chanting; you will arrive to your other classes _on time_. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Miss Hardbroom.”

“Very well. As you should already know, most ingredients are organised by alphabetical order. Leg of frog.”

Mildred nods emphatically, takes a step towards the storage cupboards, then pauses. “Would that be under L, or F, Miss Hardbroom?”

Hecate takes pause at that: she hadn't actually thought of it. Well then. “Very astute,” she remarks, and Mildred spins to grin at her shyly. “F. Frog, parentheses, legs.”

This arrangement may indeed work out in both their favours.

* * *

Yule passes, and the next week. By the end of December, Hecate is teaching all of the potions classes again. And as January wears on, Hecate feels better. Slowly, surely, she recovers, uses her magic a little more. It still spills out too quickly when she casts, for reasons she cannot guess, so she spends her time focusing, reteaching herself the art of control. Spells are easy enough, and the simplest to control; spell-less magic, from summoning and banishing objects to magically dressing herself, or bathing, or any number of things she’s been doing so cavalierly since she was a teenager, leaves her drained, and transferring remains utterly impossible.

She is stronger again, at least. Stretching has been a constant over the past two months, but she has only muddled through strength exercises; she uses her strength in different ways now, training muscles she did not know were untrained. She’s grown accustomed to stairs, remembers what it’s like to stir a particularly viscous potion by hand for an extended period of time. Consistent strength training works its way back into her routine now, exercises she has never done, never felt the need to do, finding their way into her regimen. 

Mildred continues to help Hecate set up at least one class each day; she is never late to her potions lessons anymore as a result, and her practical performance actually seems to be improving slightly, Hecate notes.

And Pippa continues to visit during the weekends, usually arriving late Saturday morning or early in the afternoon, sometimes staying the night. Ostensibly she continues to visit because of the Founding Stone, to check in with the students and Ada and Hecate, to track the flow of magic through the very walls of the school—to research, to learn, to write.

But often on Saturday evenings, Hecate falls asleep with Pippa’s hands stroking her back, with the feel of her magic surrounding her, seeping into her skin. And sometimes, _sometimes_ of a Sunday morning, she wakes to a gentle weight against her back and a sleepy mumble—to Pippa nestled close to Hecate’s side in the bed. Like when they were girls; Pippa sneaking down the corridor after curfew to curl beside Hecate beneath the covers because she was lonesome, or afraid, seeking out comfort at Hecate’s side for reasons Hecate never wholly understood.

Hecate remembers the nightmares; she has her own fair share now, when she sleeps deeply enough to dream, but her body is still attuned to Pippa’s sleeping terrors. She knows this because she wakes one Sunday morning, pre-dawn twilight scattered across the sky, to a sense of stricture in the air that does not come from her own body. She is stiff yes, but this is different, familiar. Suffocating, if she lets herself feel too much. She hears a whimper; rolls, can just make out the furrow of Pippa’s brow in the semi-darkness, and Pippa mumbles a complaint—a string of _no_ ’s, a whimper, an uncharacteristic twitch.

Hecate shifts closer, as close as she can, all logic and self-preserving thought banished in the wake of Pippa’s need; works her own aching body around Pippa’s, tugs her close.

“Pippa. _Pippa_ ,” she mumbles, swallowing to take control of her voice. “It’s alright, Pippa, I’ve got you. I’m here, I—”

Pippa gasps raggedly against her neck, her whole body jolting against Hecate’s as she wakes. Hecate loosens her hold immediately lest the touch be unwelcome, but Pippa makes a noise of complaint, following Hecate’s warmth, leaning into her.

“Hiccup?” she asks plaintively.

Hecate drops her arm around Pippa’s body again, pulls her closer despite the ache. “It’s me, Pipsqueak. It’s me. It was just a dream; I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

A heavy sigh gusts against her neck, sends a chill down Hecate’s spine. “ _Hiccup_ ,” Pippa repeats, relief and weariness edging her voice.

Hecate rubs her thumb against Pippa’s shoulder and holds her until the sun breaks through the clouds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thinking possibly Friday for the final chapter. I still have some edits to do, and a busy work week, but that sounds like a good day to aim for... stay tuned!


	5. so love, i'd better find a way to build my world around you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all have been wonderful! Thank you for sticking with me on this!
> 
> Basically all the same warnings from early chapters apply on this one. Please enjoy!

February comes, and with it the promise of a much needed break. There is a pile of backlogged paperwork and other administrative tasks to handle, of course, but even so, Hecate relishes the quiet. She does wish that Ada had appointed a temporary Deputy during the most difficult parts of her recovery—for both their sakes—but there’s nothing for it now except to play catch-up. Still, she feels as if a weight’s been lifted off of her despite the mounds of work weighing down each of their desks. Things will be even better after the first week of break is over, after the rest of the staff leaves the castle to just Hecate and Ada, a quiet, comfortable stillness in the echoing hallways.

For now, she suffers Algernon and Gwen and their incessant mooning over each other, and Miss Tapioca’s ranting about the state of the kitchens and gardens and supplies and suppliers. The one person she wishes she did not have to suffer is Dimity, who seems to have noticed that she’s in a better mood and decided to capitalise on it.

Cackle’s would not be the same without Dimity Drill, this is true—indeed, even Hecate will admit that the school would be far less in her absence. But _must_ every phrase out of her mouth be snark? What’s even worse, she seems to be dropping an awful lot of observations about Pippa when she catches Hecate in private. There’s nothing inappropriate, of course—she’s too good a woman for that—but she is needling; Hecate tells herself not to succumb to such ridiculous tactics, but she feels her hackles raise every time Pippa’s name slips out of Dimity’s mouth.

On Thursday, she catches Hecate in the doorway to the potions lab, asks with a grin: “Hey, HB—your girlfriend joining us this weekend?”

Hecate bristles, body ramrod straight as she turns to peer at Dimity.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says slowly, enunciating each word as if the daggers of her consonants will scare Dimity off, though it’s never been the case before.

Dimity arches a brow, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed, munching casually on a half-eaten apple. “Oh, come on. You know: socialite, _gorgeous_ , wears lots of pink, bit sporty, covers all the magazines, Headmistress of Pentangle's Acade—?”

“Miss Pentangle is _not_ my girlfriend,” Hecate hisses, wanting very much to vanish into thin air to escape the conversation.

“ _Riiight_ ,” Dimity replies. She shrugs, pushes out of the doorway, and lopes off down the hallway utterly unfazed.

Cackle’s would be less without Dimity Drill, but Hecate wouldn’t mind a few days without her. And yet, a few hours later, her voice comes echoing down the hallway, causing Hecate to flinch and freeze where she stands.

“Oi, HB!” Dimity calls, almost in sing-song fashion. “I’ve been thinking about your girlfriend problem! See, the way I see it—”

Hecate inhales sharply at the words. This line Dimity keeps insisting on crossing, this—and are Hecate’s affections really that obvious? Or is Dimity mistaking the intimacy of old friendship on Pippa’s part for something it isn’t? It doesn’t matter why or how she’s come to these conclusions, Hecate realises in the next moment, body going rigid with a flurry of annoyance and desperation and fear. Would Dimity make jokes like this in front of Pippa? Has she already? What damage will Dimity’s wagging tongue cause? What damage might it have caused already?

Hecate panics: that’s the only word for it. Before Dimity has finished her sentence, before she comes into view, Hecate twists her hand in front of her on impulse—doesn’t think about it, just does. Twists her hand in front of her chest, and pivots on her heel.

The air around her crackles and fizzes with energy and the smell of gum turpentine, compressing and releasing again so quickly her stomach feels like it’s lodged somewhere near her throat, and for a long and terrifying moment she wonders where on earth the ground has gone off to.

She doesn’t breathe until the world comes into focus again.

* * *

Pippa finds it always takes a bit of getting used to, the quiet of the castle over the break. The students at Pentangle’s are relatively unfettered; they are expected to be respectful of the staff and other students when quiet is called for, of course, just as in any other time, but much of the curriculum favors collaboration, whether in the form of group work or round table discussions. As a result, the grounds and corridors frequently ring with conversation and laughter.

Pippa doesn’t like to be alone in the castle, almost never stays past the first week of break; leaves the grounds deserted, but surrounded by protective spells, and departs just a day after the rest of her staff.

The castle is freshly empty of students now, echoing with every footstep; the staff are still here, will stay one more day; at the moment, she knows they are all likely cloistered away in their own offices or bedrooms, completing their own work. She slips out of her shoes, pads quietly across the area rug in her room, a wiggle of her fingers executing locator spells to help her find necessary forms and paperwork in the disorganised piles she has moved from the desk in her office to the smaller one in her private rooms.

She might develop a better system one of these days, but… well, she’s 48; the chances are slim, honestly.

The atmosphere of the room changes suddenly, raises the hair on her arms and the back of her neck like static. The air goes heavy, and then seems to rush out again, and then clouds with deep purple.

It isn’t frightening, though it is, momentarily, staggering. But above all, it is familiar.

Pippa steps back from her desk, peering around the room in confusion. “Hiccup?”

She speaks into thin air—and then, as if willed into being by Pippa’s voice, Hecate materialises with an outcry and stumbles forward, reaching blindly for Pippa—or, perhaps, for anything at all—as her knees give out beneath her.

Pippa lurches forward, catching Hecate up by the arms, searching her face with alarm. Hecate seems just as surprised to be here, eyes wild and skin ghostly pale, trembling from head to toe as she fights to keep her balance.

“Pip—Pippa?” she asks, voice tight in her throat.

Squeezing her arms, Pippa shifts her weight to compensate for the way Hecate rocks unsteadily forward on her feet. “It’s me,” she says, as reassuringly as she is able. “I’m here, Hiccup; I’ve got you.”

Over the next several painfully long seconds, Hecate steadies herself, gaze flitting around the room as she gains her bearings. And then, just as suddenly as she appeared, she pushes off to the side, brows furrowing, face darkening.

“I think I’m going to be ill.”

Pippa follows her, catches her around the waist as Hecate tips forward again. “Okay. Okay,” she says, shunting all other concerns to the side in favor of dealing with the immediate situation. “The bathroom’s over here, Hecate. Come on,” she says, doing her best to keep her voice soft but firm. 

Seconds later, Hecate tips forward again, landing hard enough on her knees to make Pippa wince. Hecate only grunts, weight balanced over the toilet on her elbows, her whole body trembling.

Pippa waits. Kneels behind her with her hands on Hecate’s shoulders and waits. Hecate heaves forward with a gasp, but she isn’t sick. Pippa doesn’t know what to do; Hecate’s knuckles are white, every muscle in her back tense, quavering with effort, shoulders hunched at inhuman angles.

So she soothes her hands across Hecate’s shoulders and down her back, mumbling susserent, nonsense phrases, forcing calm where she doesn’t feel it herself. Why is Hecate here? By accident, or intentionally? Last Pippa checked, Hecate was unable to transfer at all; transferring between their schools is something Pippa would only do as a last resort on a good day, so if she’s done this of her own accord… 

The muscles twitch beneath her hands, and Pippa leans forward automatically. Just before her lips brush the back of Hecate’s neck, she remembers that that isn’t right, she can’t do that, Hecate isn’t hers. Her heart lurches in her chest, fingers smoothing up to frame Hecate’s shoulders with a soft touch as she tilts her forehead against Hecate’s head for a moment instead, leaning in as close as she dares.

“Is everything alright, Hecate?” she asks softly. She is almost afraid of the answer, though objectively, she realises Hecate would have already mentioned it if there were trouble, if something were wrong. She would push herself to give a message if she had one to give, and so, this must have been an accident, though Pippa cannot fathom _how_...

(She pushes down that niggling realisation, that hopeful thought that, if this was indeed unintentional, _Pippa_ had been the destination that came to Hecate's mind. Not _office_ , not _Ada_... Pippa. And how much force of will had it taken to bring her here?)

Hecate exhales, a dark note of hoarse laughter in her throat. “Fine,” she says, voice clipped, sinking lower onto her knees. Her voice is muffled against her own chest when she adds: “Magnificent.”

At the very least, her body has stilled again.

Pippa sighs, slides a hand down to the small of Hecate’s back, the other gripping Hecate’s arm gently. “Okay,” she murmurs, offering what she hopes is a comforting squeeze. “Okay. Do you think you can stand?”

Hecate hesitates for a moment, then uncurls her body a little and nods slightly.

“Alright. Alright, I’ve got you. Come on.”

It takes longer than it should, getting her to her feet; Pippa offers whatever support she’s able, whatever Hecate seems to need: lets Hecate bear down on her as she stands, hands clasped around elbows, and loops an arm around her waist once she’s upright, taking Hecate’s weight against herself, encouraging her with a firm hold to use her for as much support as she needs.

“Ready?” Pippa asks once Hecate is steady.

Hecate nods again, swallows. Clenches her fingers against Pippa’s shoulder and mutters breathlessly, “just don’t transfer.”

“I wasn’t planning to.” Pippa speaks softly, but her heart thunders at the pitch of Hecate’s voice, at her helplessness. She swallows down the sense of dread it evokes, holds Hecate close as she helps her out to the bedroom, to her bed. 

“Pippa,” Hecate rasps as they near the bed, stiffening again inexplicably.

“Just lie down, Hiccup,” Pippa orders, and Hecate does not resist as she helps her down to the bed. “I gave you all the potion I made, so I’ll have to mirror Ada. If she sends it now, it should be here in time for your evening dose.”

“Pippa, I’m not—”

“You’re in no condition to travel, Hecate.” She keeps her voice low and steady, but firm; unzips Hecate’s boots for her, leaving them at the foot of the bed. Notes for the first time the thick material of her stockings. “Not by transference and not by broom. Just rest. I’ll be back soon.”

She leaves her there; transfers to her office and murmurs Ada’s name into the mirror.

Miss Cackle is in her office, smiles warmly at Pippa when her face comes into view. Asks, voice soft: “Can I help you?”

“Ada, it’s Hecate. She’s… she’s here,” she says, seeing no reason to skirt the subject. “She transferred.”

She watches Ada’s brows rise, the questioning frown curl at her lips. “I didn’t know she could transfer.”

“Neither did I, but she’s here,” Pippa replies, gesturing aimlessly with one hand. “She seems to have done it unintentionally, though I can’t fathom how.”

Ada makes a thoughtful noise in response, but whatever she’s thinking, she doesn’t say. Instead, she asks softly, voice just betraying a concern she seems to be trying to hide: “Is she well?”

“At the moment? No. She’s drained. Physically, magically… I don’t think she’ll be travelling any time soon. Can you send her potions by flying post, Ada?”

“Of course. Do you need anything else?”

Pippa shakes her head, manages a small smile. “She’s left Morgana behind?”

“She gets on just fine with Pendel; I’ll see to her.”

Pippa manages to smile a little broader. “Other than that, not at the moment; not that I can think of. I’ll let you know?” Ada nods a reply, and Pippa lets out a shaky breath. “Thank you.”

“Oh no,” Ada replies, an encouraging smile suddenly overtaking her face. It’s comforting, it really is. Pippa feels her nerves settle, just a little, just enough. “Thank you, Pippa. Keep me updated?”

“Of course.”

* * *

Hecate wakes with a groan to the sound of Pippa’s insistent voice, her throat dry, body overcome with exhaustion.

“Mmnft… Pip…”

“Ada’s sent your medicine, Hecate. It’s time for it; come on.” Blinking her eyes open, Hecate sees the familiar vial in Pippa’s hand. “Do you think you can eat something?” Pippa continues.

Hecate has to gather her wits about her, has to assess the state of her body, before she can answer the question. In the meantime, she lets Pippa pour a measure of the potion past her lips, swallows it obediently. 

She _should_ eat, she decides. She doesn’t want to, but her stomach is no longer rebelling, and if it’s time for her potion, it’s past time for supper. She sighs, and makes herself nod.

As she pushes herself upright on weak limbs, letting Pippa settle pillows more comfortably behind her back while she does so, she takes more careful stock of her surroundings. She has never been in Pippa’s rooms at Pentangle’s—has never been to _Pentangle’s_ , she reminds herself bitterly—but she must be in Pippa’s room. Her surroundings are not quite as vivid as she might have expected, and certainly not as pink. There’s a sprawling area rug down past the foot of the bed, a comforting, rich teal in colour. The bedding, of course, has its fair share of pink, but it isn’t gaudy, falls far short of the blinding magenta Pippa so frequently favours wearing. The decor is varied, easily as cluttered as Ada’s office, if not more so (Pippa never _was_ particularly organised), but it isn’t quite the eyesore she was expecting, at any rate.

Lifting a hand to take the proffered plate of food—a small selection of lighter and more substantial fare—Hecate notices the pale flesh of her own arm, furrows her brows at the absence of sleeves, at the wisp of hair tickling at her shoulder. “Pippa,” she mutters, belatedly giving her own body more attention. The sleep chemise she’s wearing is conservative enough—she can feel the hem tickling at her knees below the throw Pippa must have covered her with while she was sleeping.

Pippa follows her gaze downward, flushing a little. “What you were wearing didn’t seem very comfortable,” she explains timidly, managing an uncertain smile. “I… I wouldn’t have used magic on you, but. Well, under the circumstances. Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Hecate replies automatically, choosing the still-warm hand pie from the small selection on the plate; her stomach isn’t unsettled, and she’s already missed two meals, so she might as well have something substantial. She glances at Pippa as she finishes the mouthful. The pie is savory, of course, but still almost too rich. Almost. “I can move, I think. Do you have a guest r—”

“You’re not going anywhere right now, Hecate.”

“Pippa, I—”

“—can barely sit up on your own,” Pippa finishes for her.

Hecate flushes, gazes down into the pastry. She has a point, though Hecate is loathe to admit it. Far from the first time lately, she finds herself cursing her body and its frailties.

“You’re staying here,” Pippa adds after a moment, as if that settles it.

Really, it does. Hecate parts her lips to speak, but Pippa quells the urge with a glare before pushing herself upright and circling around the bed to curl up against the headboard beside Hecate while she eats.

“Do you feel any better?” she asks, more gently now.

“Not really,” Hecate mutters, using another bite of hand pie as an excuse to consider how she felt before, just after transferring, to how she feels now. “Everything feels like it’s back in the right place now,” she says, but it doesn’t mean much. It means she doesn’t feel like her insides are itching to be outside of her. It doesn’t mean she isn’t drained.

Really, she feels about the way she did in the infirmary at Cackle’s. Not upon first waking—no, no, she has the benefit of the potion in her system now—but that same helplessness. Even now, her hands tremble as she eats, only slightly stronger than she was then.

And again, she finds when she wills herself to try, she cannot feel the magic inside of her.

She stiffens, but forces herself not to react, not to let the reality of the situation affect her. She focuses on her food instead, forces herself to eat despite her lack of appetite, mechanically chewing and swallowing and feeling Pippa’s eyes on her with every bite, though the other witch says nothing.

When she offers the plate back to Pippa, having eaten her fill, Pippa banishes it back to the kitchens with an absent-minded wave of her fingers. Hecate tries not to envy the ease with which she casts.

“How do you feel?” Pippa asks softly after a span of silence, trying again.

Hecate turns to face her, finds Pippa’s eyes still on her, pink lips turned down into a concerned frown.

“Empty,” she says, because at the very least, she owes Pippa—and herself—the truth.

Pippa reaches for her, curls her fingers around Hecate’s and squeezes slightly, lips drawing into an attempt at a reassuring smile. “You mentioned that when you cast, you expend more magic than usual. But that you regain it at an adequate pace as well?”

“Depending upon your definition of adequate.”

Pippa makes a noise of displeasure, but rubs her thumb gently along Hecate’s knuckles. “Well, I’m going to count on you regaining your magic quickly here. Who knows: it might even be good for you to be here. Pentangle’s Founding Stone has a completely different energy; it can’t hurt to let your magic be nurtured by various sources.”

Hecate snorts, but holds her tongue, unwilling to be cruel now.

Pippa seems to understand, falling into silence for a span, though she doesn’t let go of Hecate’s hand. It’s comforting, Hecate supposes. She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, makes herself really inhabit her surroundings: Pippa’s magic, it's lightness and warmth; the smell of her, subtle and sweet, petrichor and honeysuckle.

“Do you want to take a bath?” Pippa’s voice is quiet, gentle.

Hecate forces herself to nod.

* * *

Hecate’s sleep is fitful, at best. Pippa wakes several times in the night, curled beside her on the opposite side of the bed, watches her face contort and her fingers twitch, listens to her nonsense, mumbled complaints.

In the morning, she brings up breakfast. Hecate grouses about mollycoddling, but nevertheless allows Pippa to curl behind her late morning with her fingers tracing mindless, delicate patterns along Hecate’s back, magic seeping into her skin. She stays in Pippa’s bed most of the day, and Pippa does her best to address the final tasks that need doing while her full teaching staff is still here, and curls up by Hecate again that night to rub gentle circles on her back until they both fall asleep.

Something is wrong when she awakens again—terribly, terribly wrong. Hecate is turned away from her, her body stiff, breathing laboured and punctuated by short, quiet whimpers.

She shakes herself awake and reaches out a tentative hand toward Hecate’s shoulder. “Hiccup?”

Hecate yelps, her entire body lurching away when Pippa’s fingers land on her shoulder. “ _Don’t_!” she cries, voice strangled and pitched high.

Pippa yanks back as if burned, startled by the outcry, heart in her throat. “Hecate, are you—”

Just as her hand nears Hecate’s body again, just as she’s about to touch her shoulder, to pull herself closer to the other woman’s body, thinking perhaps Hecate had a nightmare, that what she needs is physical contact, that what she needs is _comfort_ , Hecate begs: “Don’t touch me. Don’t, _don’t, Pippa please_.”

The plea slurs into nonsense as Pippa slips down to the foot of the bed, half crawling around it to Hecate’s side. She reaches automatically for her hands and then yanks them away again, heart thundering all the louder. She thinks perhaps Hecate is having a particularly lucid nightmare, but one look at her face dashes that hope, for Hecate’s eyes are wide, glazed and damp in the darkness.

“Hecate?” she asks, her own voice a plea, using the ensuing silence as stimulus to really _look_ at Hecate. She is rigid, her body twisted at odd angles as if she’s trying to leave it entirely, creating as few points of contact as possible between herself and the bed.

“It’s all pins and needles,” Hecate breathes in a rush, finally breaking the stillness with words. “Fire on my back. Don’t touch; don’t touch, please.”

“I’m not touching, Hiccup; I won’t touch, I swear,” Pippa replies, tangling her fingers in the bedding to give credibility to the promise. “What can I do?”

“Nothing.”

“What about your potion?”

“That’s for muscle pain and spasms, not for this,” Hecate says through clenched teeth, voice rising steadily in volume.

“A pain potion, then.”

“They don't work.”

“What do you mean they don't work?”

“I _mean_ , they don't work.”

“Well, what do you take for this?” Pippa demands, desperate for an answer, any answer.

“The potion you brewed.”

“Then why isn’t it working?”

“Because sometimes it _doesn’t_ , Pippa!”

Hecate’s voice is raised at the last, sends Pippa reeling back, staring at her in bewilderment. If she can’t help—surely there’s _something_... 

Hecate speaks again before Pippa has fully processed the situation, voice low, clipped, but gentle as it can be under the circumstances. “Pippa, I’m sorry. Pip—please, Pippa. Go. Please go. Leave me alone, I… please.”

Pippa pushes away from the bed, staring at Hecate’s now-closed eyes, at her lined face in the semi-darkness. She doesn't have any answers, has no idea what to do…

She forces herself to walk out the door, not knowing what else she can do but listen and leave, and then she is in her office, speaking Ada's name into the mirror without fully realising what she's doing until an unfamiliar bedroom is framed in the glass.

A light is on; in the edge of the frame, Ada Cackle is curled, sleeping still, onto the furthest edge of her bed with a black cat—Pendel, her brain supplies—snuggled against her back; another cat who Pippa recognises immediately as Morgana paces the empty span of bed in obvious distress.

“Ada?” she asks, and Morgana lifts her head, meowing loudly. “Miss Cackle?”

She knocks on the glass just as Morgana leaps off the bed, and a moment later the cat is very close to the mirror, giving another long call before sniffing at the glass.

“Hello, dear,” Pippa murmurs, swallowing down the tightness in her throat and pressing her fingers against the glass. “She isn't well, I'm afraid.” Morgana chirps back, and Pippa points in the direction of the bed. “Help me wake Ada; I need her help.”

As Morgana leaps back down from her perch again to bound onto the bed—then Ada's stomach—Pippa resumes her own attempts, desperate for guidance. “Ada? Ada please, I need you,” she begs as Morgana outstretches a paw to bat at Ada's chin. Pippa suspects the woman could sleep through anything if she tried hard enough.

Pendel joins the frackas as well when Morgana meows plaintively; Ada finally wakes to her own familiar nipping at her ear and Morgana’s deathly yowl.

“Goodness,” Pippa just hears her say. “Mor—Pendel—!”

“Ada!”

Ada jerks upright, displacing Morgana from her chest as she does, and disengages herself from the bedding to move around to the mirror at surprising speed, and with even more surprising alertness.

“Ada, it's Hecate,” Pippa says, not waiting for the other woman to question her. “She's in pain, she—” The tears start then, and she splays her fingers, glances down at them as if they're the culprits in all this. “She won't let me touch her, Ada, I don't—I don't know what to do. She won't let me give her a pain potion, says it won't work—”

“Because it won't,” Ada interjects softly.

Caught off-guard by the interruption and the words, Pippa blinks up at her; Ada's eyes gleam, soft and sad, though her mouth is drawn into a thin line. “What do you mean it won't—she's in pain, pain potions are _for pain_!”

“I know. I know it doesn't make sense,” reasons Ada, voice low. “Has she taken the clear potion?”

“No.”

“Okay. She may feel she doesn't need it. It's relatively short-acting. Do you keep sleeping draughts?”

Pippa thinks on this for a moment, then nods, scudding tears from her cheeks with the heel of her hand. “In the infirmary.”

“Please understand, Pippa, and I know this is difficult to hear, but there's really very little you can do to help her right now. Get a sleeping draught—it's the only thing that's going to give her any relief right now.”

Pippa nods, forces herself to listen attentively as Ada continues to speak.

“Try to convince her to take a dose of the clear potion. She might not want to, and that's fine. If she does, there are measurements on the dropper; just give her the smallest dose unless she says otherwise. Then give her the sleeping draught. With it, she might sleep four, six hours if you're lucky.”

“Only that?” Pippa blurts.

“She usually metabolises potions relatively quickly; even if not, remember she's in a great deal of pain.”

Ada glances away from the mirror, and her eyes fix on what must be a clock, because she says: “She'll miss her next dose of the daily potion, but being a couple hours late won't harm her. Give it to her as soon as she wakes up. By then she'll almost certainly want the clear potion again. With the lingering sleeping draught and the dose of the clear potion, she might doze off and on for another hour or two.”

“Okay.”

Ada smiles very slightly, encouragingly, then continues. “Often during these episodes she's sensitive to odors, sounds, lights… Keep the lights dim, run her a bath while she's sleeping and don't put anything in it. When she's able to get up, she'll probably appreciate the soak.”

Ada's quiet for a moment, so Pippa asks, expectantly, “then what?”

Ada shrugs. “Wait. You can get away with giving her the sleeping draught every twelve hours for a few days if necessary. Keep giving her the other potions, let her dictate what she can and can't do. She knows her condition, Pippa; all you can do is be prepared to help if she needs it.”

Pippa swallows. A few days, she'd said. She feels very heavy; her chest hurts. “How long will this last, Ada?”

She watches Ada's lips pull into a pained smile. “It's been a long time since she's had a bad episode, Pippa. I couldn't tell you. When she first started at Cackle's she was in and out of one for three months.” Pippa can't quite stop the pained noise that leaves her own throat, but Ada doesn't pause. “She was able to teach most days, but on others she couldn't leave her bed. Sometimes they only last a day or two.” She sighs. “We'll pray this is one of the latter variety.”

Pippa nods dumbly, staring past Ada, lost somewhere in the distance. _Months._ She can't imagine. Thinks how terrible it must be, to be forced to fight through this alone. Knows the pain must be excruciating. Hecate is so reserved in everything; to betray such pain…

“Pippa?” Pippa shakes herself back to the present, stares at Ada with wide eyes. “Do you need me there?”

Pippa thinks about this for a moment. Swallows. Shakes her head resolutely. “No.”

“Okay. Keep me updated?”

“Of course.”

The call ends. Pippa takes just a moment to steel herself before setting out to do as instructed. She finds a sleeping draught in the infirmary potion store, and returns to her room to find Hecate much the same. She agrees to her potion, takes a small dose, and doesn’t fight the sleeping draught. Pippa waits, waits for sleep to take her, and then a little longer, watching as Hecate’s body relaxes into the bedding, breath unsteady but slow.

She runs a bath, and manages to resist the urge to add something relaxing or restorative or _something_ to it, trusts the charmed tub to keep it at the appropriate temperature until such a time as it’s needed. It’s still early, but she can’t think about sleep, so she goes for a jog up on the ramparts, using the pre-dawn light to guide her. Showers in one of the guest rooms; does some paperwork. Startles at the way magic suddenly goes crawling up her skin a couple of hours later, informing her that someone has arrived on the otherwise deserted grounds. Her staff have left; it should just be her and Hecate.

She transfers out to the main gate, and finds Ada there with her hand raised to knock, looking bone-weary with a restless feline circling her feet.

Morgana.

“Ada, I didn’t—”

“I’m afraid Morgana was less inclined to remain at Cackle’s,” Ada murmurs wearily, managing an absent smile as she gestures vaguely down at the familiar. “She insisted.”

“Well, come inside.”

“No, no, it’s alright.”

“Ada, I insist; you’ll fall off your broom, if you’re as tired as you look.” The sun has only just peeked above the horizon; she can’t blame her.

Ada acquiesces, and finds a seat on the sofa in Pippa’s office with a fresh pot of tea beside her. Insists that she might have a brief nap, that Pippa need not attempt to play host. Pippa takes her word for it, and makes her way back to her private rooms with Morgana at her heels.

Hecate is still asleep when they arrive, though she has rolled to her other side. Morgana leaps into the bed, sniffs and purrs and paces up the bed and back down again. Seemingly satisfied enough with her examination, though the tip of her tail continues to flick in agitation, she curls at Hecate’s feet, angled so she has a clear line of sight to Hecate’s face.

Pippa lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding and settles into a plush chair, weary of pretending it’s a normal day but disinclined to bother Ada when she’s been so good as to bring Morgana here. She can’t imagine the discomfort, sensing, then knowing, that something is wrong but helpless to act. Pippa watches the cat for a moment, but aside from the flicking tail she is still as a statue at Hecate’s feet.

For a brief moment, she wonders how difficult it will be to remove the hair from her pale bedding. She’s not sure she knows any fur removal spells… 

She doesn’t realise she’s dozed off until a soft knock comes on the door. She blinks awake, pulls the door open enough to reveal a decidedly more enlivened-looking Ada standing in the doorway.

“I’d forgotten,” Ada says in greeting, holding out a vial of potion. “She may need more.” Pippa takes it from her and manages a grateful smile. “Now, I wouldn’t want to outstay my welcome—”

“Oh, Ada, no,” Pippa insists, conscious of the volume of her voice. “Don’t you—?”

“I feel much better now,” Ada replies, reaching out to touch Pippa’s hand lightly. “And I’m afraid there isn’t much I can do here.” Her gaze flickers from Pippa’s face into the room, to Hecate’s sleeping form, and her lips draw into a tight line again. “No, having two people here to fret over her won’t help at all, I’m afraid. Unless you need me, Pippa, I think I’ll go home.”

Pippa hesitates, then nods. “Thank you, Ada. Again.”

“No need to thank me, dear. Just look after her.”

“I will. Of course I will.”

“I know. I know.”

It's not long after that Hecate does wake. Pippa sits silently, watches as she fights it, then sinks back into a restless fifteen-minute nap, and then another, briefer one.

She rolls over, biting back an outcry, and Pippa lowers herself to her knees at the bedside, forcing herself not to reach out, not to touch. “Hecate? I have your potion,” she says simply. “It's time for it. Can you take it?”

They manage it, and then the clear potion, and as Ada had suspected Hecate slips into another series of fitful naps beneath the combined weight of the sleeping potion and antispasmodic.

Later, she hauls herself out of bed and lurches towards the bathroom; Pippa gives her a moment, knows she’ll only want to support her physically, and that she can't. When she does follow her in, Hecate is contemplating the tub with a distant expression, hands shaking as her fingertips pull at the hem of the chemise.

“Go ahead,” Pippa murmurs. “I'll help you with that.”

When Hecate nods, a twist of her fingers removes her garments and lands them neatly off to the side.

The soak is abnormally long, but Pippa says nothing; if it helps, she doesn't care—only perches on the toilet seat and gazes into her hands as Hecate goes somewhere else, eyes locked on a nothingness beyond the tiled walls, body curled forward, again making as few points of contact as possible between her body and the surroundings.

“Is it always this bad?” Pippa asks after a while—quietly, very quietly, in case the noise does bother her.

Hecate comes back to herself, glancing sideways at Pippa for a moment before replying. “No. Sometimes.” She pauses, then adds: “It's been a long time.”

A long span of silence passes. Pippa swallows, almost whispers: “I'm sorry.”

“For what?”

“I don't know. Everything. Nothing.”

Silence again, until Hecate leans forward to haul herself upright, a pained noise catching in her throat when she begins to move. Pippa leaps to her feet, hovers nearby as Hecate makes her way out of the tub—ready to aid, but unwilling to touch if it isn't necessary. Hecate manages it, and Pippa raises her hand, performs a drying spell when Hecate nods assent. Another flick of her fingers has Hecate wincing, reaching up to adjust the strap of the chemise where it lies against her shoulder. Her nostrils flare as she shuts her eyes, shifting the strap again, just a little. It must be the seam at her back, Pippa thinks, watching for a moment with pursed lips.

“You don’t have to wear it,” she murmurs, reaching her hand out before she remembers again that she cannot touch. 

Hecate begins to arch a brow, but then, as if even that pains her, lets her expression drop back to a neutral one.

“There's no need for propriety, Hiccup. This isn't Cackle's; it's just us here. Nobody's going to come looking for you; you're not going to be needed at a moment's notice. You can wear or not wear whatever you please, and if you do nothing but lay in my bed for the next week, I won't judge you—though I can't promise not to fret.”

For a moment, Hecate looks like she's going to laugh, or at least smile. Instead, she gives a tiny nod.

Pippa removes the garments once more, and another flick of her fingers has a glass of water in her hand. “Drink,” she orders softly. I’ll go straighten out the bedding.”

She pulls back the covers, smooths down the sheets carefully; wrinkles won’t do. “Could you eat?” she calls back.

Hecate doesn’t answer at first; is almost directly behind Pippa when she finally does. “I don’t think so.”

Morgana meows disapprovingly. Pippa jumps at the noise, having nearly forgotten the familiar was here; she’s perched in Pippa’s chair now, quiet and unimposing and out of Hecate’s way, but she must not approve of Hecate rejecting food.

“ _Later_ , Morgana,” Hecate grumbles, lowering herself to the bed with a groan.

The cat settles at that, but Pippa thinks she looks rather dissatisfied with the situation.

Honestly, she rather thinks she likes Morgana. She never _disliked_ her, of course, but she’s also never realised just how attuned to Hecate’s needs she is. She remembers Hecate telling her that Morgana could become quite grouchy when Hecate missed a meal, but she had been still and quiet as Hecate slept, and although Pippa knows Hecate’s usual breakfast-time has passed her familiar had tucked herself quietly out of the way until food was mentioned.

Pippa has great respect for familiars, of course; she’s awfully attached to her owl. But owls and cats are very different beasts, and even among feline familiars she’s never met one quite so comprehending of nuance.

She lets Hecate find the most comfortable position before lowering first the sheet, then the comforter, over her body.

“I have lavender oil. Or valerian, if you’d prefer. Would that be alright? To help you sleep?”

“You can try.”

So Pippa sets about diffusing a little oil into the air from the side table, murmurs assurances that she’ll be back when it’s time for her next dose of potion, and leaves her be; it doesn’t do them any good for Pippa to linger in the room fretting: she’ll get nothing done, and it won’t help Hecate at all either. She does pop down to the kitchens first, making up a platter with an assortment of light snacks to set beside the bed, and shredding a handful of leftover chicken for Morgana, who headbutts her hand in thanks when she leaves it for her.

She checks in regularly as promised: doses potions, refills the water glass, runs another bath come evening, when Hecate takes a higher dose of the potion for her muscle aches, body twisting into rebellious knots at the abuses of long hours in uncomfortable positions. Pippa curls up on the opposite side of the bed afterwards, on top of the bedding, beneath an oversized throw. She knows her own penchant for stealing blankets, knows she’ll probably wind up snuggled up against Hecate in the night, if she isn’t careful; better a sense of separation, for Hecate’s wellbeing as well as whatever sense of propriety remains between them.

She doesn’t sleep much, too worried to find real rest. When a glance at the clock in the middle of the night tells her there's nothing she can do, no potion to give, she holds her breath and pretends she doesn't hear Hecate sobbing into the pillows beside her.

The next day is much the same, but Hecate forces herself out of the bed a little more. Manages some very light stretching. Eats two small meals. (Grumbles at Morgana when the cat becomes agitated between the meals she does eat.)

And again, the next day. More stretching, more soaking. Three meals, and some tea and a single digestive in the afternoon.

The next morning, long before sunrise, Pippa wakes from uncomfortable dreams—not nightmares, per se, and the subject eludes her, but she knows they were not pleasant—with a start, only to find a body pulled up close to hers, a head of thick hair tickling her nose.

Hecate moves closer with a muffled complaint when Pippa jerks awake, head dipping beneath her chin, nose brushing across her collarbone and breath hot against her throat. But then, quickly, as if just realising fully what is happening, she pulls away again with a noise that almost sounds like _‘oh’_.

Pippa reaches out, thoughtlessly resting a hand on Hecate’s arm just as Hecate’s eyes come into view—a little wide, a little startled, as she looks into Pippa’s face. It’s then that Pippa remembers how much pain the smallest of touches has caused for Hecate over the last few days; she pulls her hand away, but it’s Hecate who utters a sudden “ _Sorry_.”

“No,” Pippa’s voice cracks with disuse, so she tries again. “No, it’s okay. I just don’t want to hurt you.”

“You didn’t,” Hecate mumbles back.

Pippa watches her with curiosity, lowering a hand to Hecate’s shoulder and ghosting her fingertips against her skin. “You’re feeling better?”

Hecate seems to consider this for a long few moments, checking in with herself piece by piece. “In some ways,” she replies at last.

Turning slightly, Pippa lets her eyes adjust, peers at the clock. “It’s past time for your muscle potion. Do you want a dose?”

Hecate hums a noise of assent. She has become agreeable to Pippa’s use of magic for simple tasks, when necessary, so Pippa summons the vial of potion over and props herself up on her elbow to dose it.

Settling down beside her again, she watches Hecate for a moment; her eyes are heavy with sleep, lids fluttering. Pippa reaches out, touches her shoulder again.

“Come here,” she invites. She doesn’t know if this is a good idea, but she does know that Hecate had reached for her in her sleep—that even if she will not admit it now, she wanted, likely still wants, the satisfaction of touch. Pippa will give it, would give it all day, every day, if only to give Hecate some small comfort. She deserves it, deserves more than that, but she is tense and unyielding and has built so many walls, and Pippa is deeply afraid of trying to give more than she will accept, of appearing overbearing. She knows she can be aggressive in these things; knows that she lacks the same understanding of Hecate’s barriers she used to possess, when they were children. Knows that a wrong step may look, to Hecate, like a battering ram rather than an emissary petitioning for peace.

Hecate gazes at her for a long and still moment, expression unreadable. “Pippa…”

“It’s okay,” Pippa tries, stroking her thumb across the curve of Hecate’s shoulder. “Come back.”

And it’s enough, just enough. Hecate moves closer, tucks herself beneath Pippa’s chin; her breath gusts across Pippa’s neck as she sighs, sleepy and content.

Pippa curls an arm around her, splays her fingers against Hecate’s bare back. Lets the warmth of her magic pool against her fingers, and strokes the base of Hecate’s neck, eases her touch across Hecate’s shoulders, careful of the tender points she knows are there.

“Is this okay?” she asks into the darkness, voice soft, heart pounding. She wonders if Hecate can hear it.

“Mm…gently,” Hecate mumbles, voice muffled and soft.

“Of course,” Pippa murmurs back. “Of course.”

* * *

Hecate wakes confused, aching, and sore. Her body continues to rebell; she doesn’t feel rested. And yet, there’s a dichotomy: her own body, stiff and smarting as she leaves the very worst part of a flare-up behind, ensconced in impossible comfort, tenderness. Bone-weary and loathe to face the full character of her condition, she dozes a little, dragging slowly toward full consciousness.

Her back is cold.

She moans, moves her limbs just a little. One foot drapes off the end of the bed at the ankle, sheets pulled taut against her toes. There’s a weight across her ribs, cushioned by the thick comforter: Pippa’s arm, she realises; and that means that it’s Pippa’s hand curled against her back, where the blankets pull down to let the cooler air of the room into her cosy cocoon of bedding. Her breath pools, gathers, warming her face, and she lets her eyes flutter open, finds herself staring at the long, pale line of Pippa’s throat.

For the first time, mostly covered in blankets and with layers of bedding nestled between their bodies, Hecate feels well and truly naked in front of Pippa.

She draws back, a little apprehensive as she glances up into Pippa’s face, only to find her sleeping still. So she disentangles herself from the bedding, slips from beneath Pippa’s arm, and levers herself upright at the opposite side of the bed, forcing herself to stay silent as she does.

There’s not a muscle or joint inside of her that doesn’t hurt, she thinks, steeling her resolve and making herself stand. She half-stumbles to the bathroom, running a bath and turning to an ornate cabinet full of… of _things_. There are endless bottles of potions and soaps, and an array of sponges and brushes as well; she wonders that she didn’t notice them all before. Luckily, the epsom salts aren’t hard to find in the array, but there are no less than six tins of them, and most seem to be some shade of pink. She groans impatiently and selects one at random, adding a generous amount to the tub as the water fills it.

She thinks she might have chosen poorly. It couldn’t be something mild, or something even vaguely medicinal. Something to soothe or enliven. It had to be coconut. Coconut and something else she can’t quite place, something floral undercutting the vivacious, tropical scent.

It isn’t unpleasant, but even now, she balks at such a frivolous fragrance.

She settles in nevertheless, and immediately feels the effects of the spelled salts seeping into her skin, relaxing aching muscles. Her own bath salts have a spell mixed in, but she dares to think Pippa’s is _better_. 

She’ll need a few more soaks to know for certain if that’s true, or if the circumstances only make it seem that way.

There’s no sign of Pippa by the time she leaves the tub, so she dries herself with an oversized, abundantly fluffy pale pink towel from the shelf and, after a moment of doubt, takes a housecoat from a hook on the back of the door and wraps herself in it.

For the first time since arriving, she has the wherewithal to fully realise that the only clothes she has are the blouse and skirt she was wearing when she arrived, and that she has no idea where those clothes are at the moment.

The point is probably irrelevant, really; she needs to move, to stretch—to release her body, not constrain it to a fitted blouse and tight skirt. Which means she will need to borrow clothes, because she isn’t naive enough to think she’s going anywhere right now. She can’t and won’t ask Pippa to transfer with her to Cackle’s—wouldn’t anyway, as she’s disinclined to relive the feeling any time soon, not until she has a great deal more control—and she hasn’t got the magic to fly nor the will to force herself onto a broomstick for the trip even if she did.

But first, she needs to eat.

She doesn’t really notice how hungry she is until she exits the bathroom to find the furniture rearranged—she’s certain that table was in the corner before—and a tray of assorted breakfast foods waiting, along with a teapot and her potions.

Pippa is already curled into a chair by the low table, a teacup in hand and a black cat in her lap. Morgana stares at Hecate for a long moment before giving a rather pointed meow, and Hecate can’t help but feel somewhat betrayed.

They might be ganging up on her for her own good, but really, it makes her teeth itch.

Still, she does eat. Not much, but she has found that she’s far less hungry when she isn’t using magic; channeling magic, like anything else, consumes energy, after all. It had taken _this_ , losing her powers completely to wholly understand just how much of her food energy was being used for casting, but even then, moving away from her frequent meals had not been an option; her body simply does not function with meals spread so far apart and nothing to eat in between.

Not only does she eat breakfast, but she manages four more meals: her daily timetable, matched to a T.

It’s a good recovery day in general, she realises after. Pippa is good—too good, too magnificent. Ada has always been good, supportive, wonderful—had kept her on when no one else had been willing, given her a job and made sure her classes were covered without question when she could not teach herself, at a time when Hecate had only just scratched the surface insofar as actually _treating_ her condition was concerned—but Pippa is… something else entirely. She has enough understanding of it and of Hecate to know what Hecate needs, for the most part. And unlike Ada, she is _pushy_ —in a way that makes Hecate want to roll her eyes, but a _good_ way nevertheless. Ada has always been insistent about certain things, but only when necessary. Pippa is somehow more assertive, more vigorous in her care—leaves no space for argument, but does it without crossing lines.

There’s something to be said for knowing someone as well as they used to know each other, Hecate supposes.

A murmured spell has a pile of Pippa’s clothes—thankfully void of pink—fitted to Hecate’s body. She sports the leggings and close-fitting, but yielding top all day, pausing often to stretch just a little—tiny victories that she accepts as best she can. Pippa rubs her back; she is too tender to let her do much, but open enough by now to close her eyes and breathe deeply as Pippa’s hands skim across her shoulders and down her spine, magic warming and soothing her skin, slipping into and through her, unwinding in her limbs and curling around her lungs, her heart.

She doesn’t deserve Pippa Pentangle, but she does her best to make herself. Wills herself to believe Pippa when she gives her _that_ look, begging without begging: ‘ _believe me when I say that I want to do this for you._ ’ She doesn’t know why it is so important to her—doesn’t know why _she_ is so important to her, or how, after everything, Pippa can still care so much.

It’s been two months since Pippa said the words, but Hecate sleeps with an _I still love you_ heavy on her breast. In Pippa’s bed. In Pippa’s borrowed clothes. She doesn’t even argue when Pippa insists Hecate keep sharing her bed ( _I want to be there for you if you need anything, Hiccup,_ she says, and Hecate cannot deny the too-soft look in her gleaming eyes).

In the end, she craves all of Pippa she can take in, devours every bit of Pippa she is willing to give. She gives back what she can—woefully inadequate, for repaying all Pippa has done and continues to do for her, but the best she has to give. A grateful smile, a timid _thank you_ , an arm around her shoulders when she wakes with Pippa’s cheek nestled against her chest.

Part of it feels terribly disingenuous—but this time, this time if she is better, if she can hold on to her feelings, if she is stronger… well, she can hold onto Pippa forever, can’t she?

So she eats, and stretches, and trains her strength, and relapses into the worst of her symptoms. She soaks, and sleeps, and tries not to whimper as Pippa releases trigger points in her back—something she’s becoming adept at, to Hecate’s mixed relief and chagrin. And she allows Pippa to sing-song an ‘ _I told you so_ ’ without rebuttal when her magic proves to recover at a surprising speed; she even returns the kiss Pippa presses to her cheek immediately thereafter, and tucks her chin to hide her blush when Pippa startles at the touch, lower lip caught between her teeth.

It’s not all roses, of course, but all told her magical recovery is back on track a week after she is up and moving again. After eighteen days at Pentangle’s, she returns to Cackle’s on a borrowed broomstick, Pippa at her side; she doesn’t even mind the wary eye Pippa keeps on her.

The timing is impeccable: the rest of the staff will return the next day to prepare for the term, and although she feels terribly guilty for leaving Ada to do the vast majority of the administrative work, Ada assures her that it’s done. Mostly. Perhaps not as well-organised as Hecate would like, but, well, Ada has her own system.

Pippa leaves again with an unobtrusive farewell and a promise to see Hecate again soon—not the next weekend, but the following one, she thinks—and Hecate settles in to sign off on a pile of papers, much to Ada’s chagrin. She insists that anything that can be done now can be done tomorrow instead, but Hecate pushes through, tells herself she won’t strain herself too much.

She _is_ bone weary by the time she falls into bed, and has a little more trouble than usual dragging herself back out of it in the morning, but her schedule falls back into place well enough. The staff returns, and the students; and if the flares of pain across her shoulders and down her legs are slightly more frequent than usual, she treats them with pragmatism and as much grace as she can muster: she watches her diet, stretches well, bathes often; extracts herself more readily than usual from stressful situations whenever possible.

And she continues to heal. Pippa visits; Mildred helps set up classes; her magic grows and settles into her veins, seeps into her marrow, her muscles and tissues and all the deepest parts of her sucked dry by the Stone and suffering for the void of power within them. She casts more often, with more control, and one April morning when she wakes, she feels different, feels strange.

Feels full.

Her body has not forgotten the feeling of transference, the way she slips between places like a breath, but she takes great pleasure in the way Dimity nearly jumps out of her skin when Hecate appears beside her in the dining hall to take her respective place beside Ada.

Ada gazes up at her, first surprised, and then knowing, and Hecate feels herself flush a little for reasons she can’t identify. She turns her palms up on the arms of the chair and wiggles her fingers one by one, letting the magic pool at her fingertips. And Ada, sweet Ada, reaches out to cover Hecate’s hand with her own, folding her fingers through Hecate’s and giving her hand a squeeze, smiling full bright.

“It’s changed, you know,” Ada says, just for Hecate to hear, when she ducks her head to hide the threatening tear.

Hecate only nods—just a little, just enough. Because her magic has changed, although only conditionally. Hardbroom magic is, always was, a force to be reckoned with on all fronts: dense and heavy, _consuming_ , white-hot and icy cold in equal measure depending on its wielder and her mood. There is a new lightness to it now, barely noticeable, but present, and Hecate knows that it is Pippa’s doing. Knows it, because Pippa’s magic diminishes slowly inside of her as she casts—has done as long as it has rested inside of her. Because her body prefers her own magic, is attuned to it, but seeks balance in all things. Because every spell she casts frees a little of Pippa’s magic too—and because at the end of a long week of casting, though her own magic regenerates, Pippa’s does not. Because, eventually, she feels an emptiness not caused by a lack of magic, but by a lack of _Pippa's_ magic.

Because while not vital to her casting, Pippa's magic is a part of Hecate now.

She gives it three days to make sure, and her magic remains unchanged, full and binding. And so, Thursday evening, Hecate stands in the middle of her office, breathes deeply, and closes her eyes. Counts down as the magic unfurls around her.

“Hecate!” Pippa is reaching for her before Hecate wholly realises that she has arrived, worry etched across her features.

Hecate shakes her head and holds up a hand placatingly. Pippa stills, watching her warily for a moment as Hecate breathes through the momentary wave of nausea. And then she grins, breathes a sigh.

“It's alright, Pippa. I'm alright.”

“Well, what are you—?”

Hecate extends both hands, palms up, and Pippa's expression moves from shocked concern to puzzlement. In the next moment, a look of dawning realisation crosses her face, and when Hecate looks down to where Pippa's hands hover uncertainly in the space between them, she notices that the hair on both their arms is on end, the air heavy with her own magic, lingering from the transfer.

Suddenly, Pippa grins wildly and places her hands into Hecate's.

Although Hecate was prepared for the possibility of it and although Pippa must expect it too, they both jump at the loud crack of dispelling energies, yanking hands away to favour stinging fingertips; Pippa even yelps.

Hecate is still reeling slightly, eyes cast over Pippa's shoulder to a now-flickering lamp, when Pippa begins laughing. And then, before Hecate has completely regained her senses, Pippa has the fingers of one hand twined with Hecate's, her other palm warm on Hecate's cheek. Her lips on Hecate's lips.

Hecate freezes, sways, and then it's over. Pippa withdraws, presses her fingers against her mouth and stares at Hecate in terror.

“Oh, Hic—Hecate, I'm so sorry, I—I shouldn't have, I'm—”

Hecate shakes herself back to her senses, gazing at Pippa, trying to determine what she can say to ease her discomfort, if anything. But she can't—she can't because there's nothing and everything to say, too much and too little, and she stands there dumbly for a long moment. Distantly, she becomes aware that Pippa is trying to unclasp their hands, to draw away, and it's that tug that brings her back.

She pulls back, just a little harder. Releases Pippa's hand when her momentum drives her toward Hecate instead of away. Cups her face in both of her hands and kisses her.

And everything clicks into place.

Or flows, really—because when their lips touch and their bodies align the magic goes pouring out of her, that familiar feeling of exchange, but more. More powerful, more inundating. Pippa's magic washes through her, head to toe, fills her breast until she thinks she is going to explode, and realises she needs air—desperately, desperately needs a breath.

Hecate withdraws a little and gasps, opening her eyes and blinking as Pippa's face comes into focus.

She’s panting raggedly, eyes glistening.

“Hiccup.” She curls her fingers against the back of Hecate's neck, and Hecate realises belatedly that Pippa’s other hand is tangled in the front of her blouse, tugging the fabric partly free from her skirt. “Hecate is this—?”

“Yes,” Hecate chokes, not knowing the question, but suspecting. Hoping her answer is enough.

Pippa surges forward, rewarding her answer with a hungry kiss. “I've wanted—this—you d—you don’t—mmn—how long,” she gasps between kisses while Hecate chases the words, swallows them, curls her arms around Pippa and desperately, desperately pulls her closer.

“Years.” Hecate breathes, and she means it as a confession. “Decades.”

“ _Yes_.”

Hecate freezes again, wide-eyed as Pippa withdraws a little to gaze breathlessly up at her, their noses brushing. It's hard to focus on her face.

“What?” Hecate manages, feeling as though the world has just tilted off its axis.

“You're right,” Pippa says, a question in her tone—and then her eyes grow wide as saucers and she curls her fingers all the tighter against Hecate to draw her closer as the tears spark again in her eyes, a ragged breath leaving her.

Decades.

Into the ebb and flow of magic between them, Hecate inserts a silent question: _Since school?_

And in the rush of Pippa’s magic flooding back into her, she thinks she feels the answer: _Yes._

With kiss-bruised lips and a deep purple trail of magic chasing Hecate’s thumb down her cheek, Pippa fists both hands into the front of Hecate’s blouse and asks, breathlessly: “Are you going to take me to bed or not?”

* * *

Pippa is quite certain she fell asleep nestled beneath Hecate’s chin. Certain that they lay front to front, stretched beneath the sheets, a fold of the comforter tucked between their bodies (Hecate, ever sensitive to cold, had shuffled beneath it when her hands began to grow cold; Pippa herself had still been warm, couldn’t bear the full weight of all that bedding—snuggled up as close as possible and let herself be content as Hecate’s magic washed over and through her with a quick shower spell).

She has stolen beneath the covers too by the time she wakes up—she does prefer to be cosy—for they are both tucked snugly into the bedding now. At some point, Hecate must have rolled away; and Pippa, of course, had followed. Wakes wrapped around Hecate from behind, pressed snugly against the warm plane of her back, nuzzled into a head of raven hair with a few lone flyaways tickling her ear, her chin, her neck.

Unwinding herself carefully from Hecate’s body, not wanting to disturb her, Pippa stretches slowly, arching up off the bed with a barely suppressed moan. Her whole body is alight—a dim and satisfying glow from last night, and something more.

She has felt Hecate's magic within her before, has carried tentative tendrils of it curled within her chest for months, ever since it was strong enough to be felt and shared, but never like this: never like a white-hot light, a burning sun enveloping her heart; never like her own personal star nestled in her breast.

She understands so much of Hecate now, and her family. The prestige behind the name Hardbroom—not just because of its age, but the power in the line. The rigid control Hecate has exerted over her power since childhood. But she knows, she _knows_ that all that raw power, bent to good... Well, the moon may guide the tides, but without the sun, life does not exist.

Pippa breathes, long and slow and deep, and curls a hand over her heart. Feels the magic inside of her align with Hecate's energies and hums softly at the heat and light and _life_. She tiptoes across the floor to the bathroom. Runs a bath, fills the tub with soft pink foam and the subtle, wafting aromas of her favorite post-workout soak. If it helps to ease her calves after a jog… well. She nibbles at her lip as she leaves the bathroom, leaning against the door frame and tucking a lock of hair behind her ear to gaze at Hecate where she lies, still sleeping, in the middle of Pippa’s bed.

With a contented sigh, she magicks herself into her clothes and transfers to her office. First, she’ll mirror Ada to see that Hecate’s classes are covered for the day, and that she’s not needed or expected for the weekend. Then she’ll let her Deputy know the same.

* * *

Hecate wakes slowly, blinking her eyes open to a golden halo in the full light of day. She wrenches her eyes shut at the brightness, and after a moment the light against her eyelids diminishes.

When she opens her eyes again, Pippa’s face is close, the remaining light still catching softly in her hair, a timid smile on her lips.

“Sorry,” she murmurs. “Is this better?”

“Mm.” Hecate can’t quite bring herself to attempt words yet, just stares blearily at Pippa instead. Ethereal, beautiful Pippa, with her hair shining like spun gold.

She returns Pippa’s smile. Broader, warmer. Stretches her limbs out, and winces at how sore they are, and at the shock of pain in her right shoulder.

“How do you feel?” Pippa asks, eyes full of care when Hecate meets her gaze again.

Hecate is quiet for a moment, then swallows at the dryness in her throat. “Too soon to tell,” she mumbles, flexing her fingers and toes, shifting against the soft surface of the bed.

Pippa shifts just a little closer, fingertips ghosting across Hecate’s collarbone. “There’s a bath ready for you,” she says, and her tone seems different now, uncertain. For the first time, Hecate notices that Pippa is dressed. “Only don’t be upset when you see it; you’re going to love the way it feels. Promise.”

What humour is there in her tone seems… forced.

Hecate shrinks a little, but manages to imbue her own tone with a little humour when she asks: “Is it pink?”

“Just a bit,” Pippa replies, and the smile at the edge of her mouth is tentative.

Hecate recognises the uncertainty, and thinks back over the previous night, and over the very brief time she’s been awake.

The evening had been delightful—equal parts enthusiastic and tender, and utterly free of reservation. Well, free of reservation on Pippa's part—but any reservations Hecate had had, Pippa had deftly navigated with words and touch, giving Hecate confidence in what she felt and what she wanted and what she _needed_ ; she had been perceptive and open, readily acting and reacting to make sure Hecate was comfortable, and sharing her own wants with equal readiness, modifying as needed without complaint—indeed, with fervour—to ensure they both felt the best pleasure had to offer between them.

She’d been wonderful—had made Hecate feel wonderful; and, Hecate thinks, Pippa had felt that too, in equal measure. She had been all encouragement, all praise.

Surely she doesn't regret it now?

For a moment, Hecate fears this may be the case: feels her stomach drop and her heart race. But her eyes catch on Pippa's; she sees the hope there, and the thought shifts: does Pippa think that _she_ has regrets?

 _Too soon to tell_ , she'd said.

It had only been honest, but…Well, perhaps Pippa was trying to ask a different question entirely. It hadn't occurred to her, has never once crossed her mind, that Pippa might doubt her own worth in any way, could question her value in Hecate's eyes for even a moment.

But it was Hecate who left. Hecate left, and Hecate avoided mirror chats and made excuses every time Pippa tried to reach out… and Pippa is lying here now with a question in her eyes and a downward turn to her mouth and Hecate realises that they have so, so much to talk about before they can really heal. Before they can understand each other.

For now, she can try for something simple to assuage Pippa's fears.

She breathes. Favors her lower lip uncertainly. Gathers her nerve to murmur: “Ask me if it was worth it.”

Something flashes in Pippa's eyes at that, something Hecate can't quite place. And Pippa shifts closer, the corner of her mouth tugging upwards slightly, breath shallow.

“Was it worth it?” she asks on a breath.

 _Goddess_ , Hecate loves her. She can't help it: she tilts her chin, brushes her lips softly against Pippa's, and the breath stills in her lungs as Pippa kisses back, soft and sweet.

Like this, she can almost, _almost_ forget the ache in her body. But even if she cannot forget it, the importance of it diminishes here, now, with her lips against Pippa's and their breath mingling.

“ _Yes_ ,” she replies, tries to imbue as much certainty into it as possible. “All of it. Every second. A thousand times over.”

And she is rewarded with Pippa's smile; it breaks across her face and shines like the sun. She glows. Hecate stares.

After a long moment, Pippa splays her fingers against Hecate's breastbone and gives her a little push. “Go on,” she murmurs, the smile still bright on her face and a hint of laughter behind her voice, “take your bath.”

Hecate curls her fingers around Pippa's, strokes her thumb against Pippa's palm. “Come with me?”

Pippa's nose and eyes crinkle, and her smile goes just a little crooked, lower lip caught between her teeth. And she tilts her chin again, presses her mouth more hungrily against Hecate's. Hecate hums softly with pleasure, twines her fingers loosely with Pippa's and sighs against her lips.

“I like that idea.”

Hecate feels her lips curl, doesn't try to stop the smile. She brings Pippa's hand to her lips, presses a kiss into her palm. And softly, shyly, but knowing somehow that she won't regret it, she says: “I love you.” Because she does. Because, after everything, she owes it to Pippa—and she is just wise enough to think that, just maybe, she owes it to herself too.

Suddenly, Pippa's eyes are gleaming. She presses close, closer, body brushing Hecate’s body, nose nudging Hecate’s nose. “Oh, Hiccup,” she almost whispers, voice tremulous. “My Hiccup.” (Hecate’s heart thunders, tension knotting her throat.) “I love you, too.” Her fingers brush Hecate’s jaw; her lips, her chin. “I always have,” she adds, and Hecate can’t stop the shudder of her breath as it leaves her. Pippa’s lips traverse her face, chin to cheek to forehead to nose. “Always will.”

Hecate sobs. Sobs, and then laughs. And with tears on her cheeks, joy in hear heart, and Pippa’s magic blooming in her breast, she takes hold of her, and kisses and kisses and kisses her, and vows to never, ever let go.


End file.
